The Justice Club
by Bijou Lee
Summary: AU: Before founding the Justice Club, they came from different social groups. But after encountering a spaceship from Mars, social ramifications and new challenges are set in motion. No superpowers, just normal teenagers minding their own business.
1. Martian Shower

This is my first alternate universe on Justice League. I was inspired to write this after seeing a picture of teenage versions of Clark, Hal, Arthur, Bruce, Diana, Wally, and the Martian Manhunter. The wallpaper showed the team watching a movie, and it depicted the characters' personalities so well. I laugh every time I see it. And I hope you enjoy this story just as much as I had fun writing it.

Enjoy!

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He glanced at the pink slip in his hand, crumpled it, but immediately ironed it before turning the doorknob to the room that stole his freedom. Mr. Adams was hunched over his magazine, his reading undeterred by the glum newcomer. Perched atop the bridge of his nose were half-moon-shaped glasses, surreptitiously adding ten more years to his physical appearance.

Bruce glanced at the magazine in the teacher's hand—it featured a haggard face of a top celebrity—and he presented his admittance to Mr. Adams, who in turn took the slip without looking at it and waved Bruce to pick any chair in the barely lit room.

Bruce quietly walked to the backseat, ignoring the stares of his fellow detention mates. Upon crossing the threshold earlier, he noticed the usual high school misfits: Bane the bully, Quinn the tattooed goth, Oswald the stubby chain smoker, and Jack the ever-aspiring magician. Even though Jack was the laughing stock in the one and only illusionist business at DC Academy, Bruce admired the young man's persistence to laugh when his cards flew in all opposing directions, to blush like crazy when his handkerchiefs suddenly came up short, and to repay the five dollar bill he tore up when attempting to piece it back together with one swipe of a hand. Bruce wondered what could have led Jack to earn the pink note that amounted to a tarnished record. And yet, Bruce was in the same boat. Skipping Ms. Wallace's home economics class for a week should've merely sent Bruce to the principal office instead of the detention center, but calling Ms. Wallace's class "dull and emasculating" must have done the trick. Still, Bruce could care less for knitting.

Putting the past behind him, Bruce placed his backpack on the table and fished out a book. He was in the midst of reading the exchange between the condemned officer and explorer in Kafka's _Penal Colony_ when a familiar waft glided past his nose. He glanced up and saw Clark Kent with a bruised eye and torn lip plunk down on the seat next to him.

Bypassing Clark's injuries, his Boy Scout looks were hardly diminished: dark waves masking his forehead, kind blue eyes, easy smile, and hefty build attracted a small crowd of brokenhearted girls whose fairy tale endings were shattered by broken promises and snappy breakups, making Clark the next dreamboat target. On the other hand, Bruce's brooding aura and boyish features seemed more compatible to the current situation. Often called the _Ice Prince_, Bruce sported spiked black hair, penetrating sapphire-blue eyes, and lean body structure that made girls salivate and daydream for x-ray vision. He was the _nice_ bad boy, avoiding the popular kids and the socially awkward. And yet, every social group of the school respected him. He was attractive, smart, and friendly enough if one deserved it. The social outcasts admired him, girls were inevitably in love with him, the jocks feared and envied him, and the bullies—no one dared mess with him. Like a lone wolf, he watched only from the sidelines; but if provoked, the perpetrator would find his locker spotless clean, his homework nowhere to be found, his gym shorts gone, his skin sprouting an ugly rash. In other words, Bruce's methods were devilishly passive-aggressive, and that made people all the more afraid of him. Bruce Wayne belonged to no group, to no one but himself.

Seeing Bruce and Clark together, an unsuspecting passerby wouldn't have guessed that this mismatched pair was best friends. Although both were often ranked at the top of the class, their personalities had people wonder what common ground brought the two together.

"Your cologne stinks as bad as your face," Bruce said, putting the book down.

Clark gingerly touched his battered eye, winced when the pain tingled half his face. Bruce sighed and handed his friend a cold compress. Clark accepted it without protest.

After the cool sensation numbed his face a bit, Clark hefted the travel-size ice pack in his hand, as if studying its weight. It felt strangely warm in his hand but against his bruises it was soothingly cold. "One of today's experiments?"

"By the rate you're going with your story, I figured you'd need it. But I didn't expect you to use it so soon." Bruce picked up his book and resumed reading. Clark inwardly thanked his friend for the gesture.

"Missed Ms. Wallace's class again?" Clark asked after a few seconds passed in silence.

"Yes, and called her class 'emasculating.'" Bruce said.

Clark studied his friend's face. "Diana was in the class, wasn't she?"

Bruce only sighed. "I'm going to get an earful." He subconsciously rubbed his ears as if her reprimands were echoing around the room.

Clark patted his friend's back reassuringly. "There's only one way to stop a woman from talking too much."

Bruce looked at Clark reproachfully. "Clark, don't even…"

"Ask her out already. It's so obvious that you—"

"No, I don't. We're just really good friends. Like how you and me, you and her are. Nothing more or less. Now don't get any funny ideas," Bruce said, ending the conversation right then.

"You're impossible," Clark said. He knew better than to pester Bruce when his serious friend was either reading a book or mixing chemicals in the school lab. Battling Bruce's silence, Clark fished out his pen and notepad and started jotting down the remainder of his story.

His hard-earned bruises erupted from a heated argument with the school president, Lex Luthor. Calling Clark's accusations baseless and impulsive, Lex's angry rant caused the student council's secretary Brutus—well, more like the council's guard dog—to jump at Clark and hit him in the face. It was so like Lex to let others do the dirty work. Even if it meant blemishing Clark's flawless face.

"I'm guessing you're here because this is the last place Lex or Brutus will step foot on," Bruce said without turning away from the novel.

"That, and Mr. Adams doesn't give a damn who waltzes in, pink slip or no pink slip," Clark filled in, waved in Mr. Adams' direction, though the man ignored the young man's friendly wave.

"Yeah, you're scared of Brutus beating the crap out of you," Bruce confirmed, ignoring Clark's protests of bravery.

With their eyes roaming the airless room, the pair caught sight of Bane lumbering toward them with clenched fists and a sadistic grin. Clark quickly tucked his notepad into his coat pocket in case Bane snatched it with his gigantic fists. Bruce, on the other hand, calmly stuffed his book into the bag, out of harm's way, and nodded in Bane's direction with a calm expression.

"What brings you ladies into the jailhouse? Aren't you supposed to be staying away from this _dump_? Wouldn't want to be rejected by Harvard and shit." Bane stood in front of them, standing tall and straight, squaring his shoulders to make himself look more foreboding to them.

"It's actually not as bad as I thought it would be," Clark said, looking around, ignoring Bane's death glare. "A little on the warm side. But cozy."

Bruce ignored his friend, craned his neck to look Bane straight in the eye. "How long's your sentence?"

Bane's lips immediately clamped shut, startled by Bruce's question. After a short pause, he said, "Uh, one more hour or so. But it doesn't matter, Mr. Adams doesn't give shit whether I leave early or not." When Bruce didn't add anything to it, Bane somehow felt compelled to return his share of curiosity, which was uncharacteristic of him. "And you're here because you beat the snot out of wannabe reporter here."

Bruce smirked, while Clark frowned. "Wannabe reporter? Is that how I'm referred to these days?" Clark complained.

"I missed Ms. Wallace's knitting class. And I called it dull and emasculating," Bruce told him.

"Emascula-wha?" Bane said, confused.

"It means the class is stripping us of our manhood," Clark said.

Bane shook his head, as if commiserating with the pain of all men who had to go through knitting class. "I'd hit detention any day than go to Wallace's class and knit a freakin' sweater."

"Yeah, sweater's definitely too much. Try mini scarf," Clark said.

Before Bane comprehended the implication, Bruce stepped in, said, "So what are you in here for?"

Bane shrugged his shoulders, as if what had transpired was of small consequence. "Stuffed _Joker's_ head in the toilet again." He turned around and sneered at Jack, who was seated in one of the front row seats, as far away from anyone as possible. Jack was hunched over his deck of cards, mumbling to no one in particular, practicing his usual tricks. He would occasionally glance over his shoulder to check if Bane was suddenly lurking behind him.

"If you did that to him, why is he here?" Clark asked.

"The dork freakin' sprayed my eyes with pepper spray," Bane angrily took his shades to reveal red eyes. Clark winced.

"You try getting toilet water in your eyes everyday, see how that feels. And it's not just pee in there." Jack muttered under his breath, but it was still loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

"What kind of guy freakin' stuffs a squirting flower thing with pepper spray, you sick homo," Bane began advancing toward Jack, who jumped up from his seat and cowered behind Mr. Adams' desk.

"Dorrance, back in your seat. You're not even supposed to be out of it. Get your butt in your seat before I _actually_ ban you guys from talking," he repeated when Bane still inched forward, whose eyes were filled with murder. "You hear me?" Mr. Adams said once again, his voice louder, laying down his magazine for the first time since Bruce came in.

After what seemed like minutes, Dorrance, otherwise known as Bane, finally returned to his seat, glaring at Jack, who shakily sat back down. When all was still, Mr. Adams grabbed his magazine, adjusted his glasses, and picked up from where he had left off.

"Wow. This place is surprisingly less frigid than the library. We should come here more often. And it's like getting front row seats to _Geeks Smackdown_." Clark said, sounding somewhat excited. When he looked at Bruce, however, he felt the error in his words and took it back. "Not that we should advocate such bullying. Any type of bullying for that matter. Especially when I just got hit in the face."

"Well, you did harass the president," Bruce pointed out.

"With the truth. The student body has the right to know," Clark, with a frustrated sigh, fished out his notepad to peruse his first draft. "He's stealing the SATs, Bruce. And I know it. I just have to catch him in the act, or hope that he'll slip up."

"Lois is letting you run the story?" Bruce asked.

"Only if I have proof. But dammit Bruce, the guy knows how to cover his tracks. It's like he's my psychologically evil self, always one step ahead of me, always knowing what I'm about to do next."

"This isn't the Twilight Zone, Clark," Bruce said, easing his friend's wild imagination.

Clark only shook his head and resumed writing. Bruce also busied himself by picking his book compilation of Kafka's short stories and reading the final paragraph of _Penal Colony_ without further interruption. Half an hour had passed until Mr. Adams alerted the students that timeout was up and that they were free to go.

"Until next time," Mr. Adams wearily called out after Bruce left.

Clark stretched his arms, as if he had been cooped up in there for days, turned to Bruce for details of what the rest of his afternoon looked like.

"Chemistry lab. I was working on something. You?"

"Red room. I need some time to think of my next move, and I left my flash drive in there. I'll stop by the lab once I'm done," Clark patted his friend's back before heading in the opposite direction.

With his hands stuffed in his pockets, Bruce quietly made his way to his refuge, his space of solitude and inspiration. The hallway was empty and void of flighty, teenage interaction—after school hours brought him nothing but joy. Closing his eyes, Bruce walked the same old route to the lab, growing increasingly excited to work on his next concoction.

He opened the door and headed straight for his table when he caught sight of a familiar figure sitting by the window, her eyes trained on a book by Jane Austen. Books were good indicators of its readers' personality and interests. In this case, Jane Austen was Diana's inspiration. Girl to girl, if they had both lived in the same age, they would have sparked and fueled a revolution that would have burned and built bridges, and female dominance would have been established if Diana had been born two centuries ago.

Sensing Bruce's presence, Diana looked up and shut her book. She waited for him to approach her, as if she were a princess sitting at her throne, expecting news from the other kingdom to be shared.

"Just got out of detention," Bruce stated the obvious, shrugging his shoulders, as if detention was part of his normal schedule. He searched for frustration in her sparkling blue eyes but found nothing. His gaze fell and stuck on her revealing, toned arms, her glossy pink lips in a determined line, her soft, dark waves undulating in the light breeze from the slightly open window, and her tan complexion showcasing her partial Greek lineage. If Bruce didn't know any better, he would have believed her to be a descendant of Aphrodite. Or Athena. Neither one was far-fetched.

"I'm glad you managed to get out of there in one piece," Diana said, opening the book in her hand. "You caused quite the riot after making that statement."

Bruce scratched his head, feeling sorry for offending Diana. Hardly for Ms. Wallace. Even though Diana didn't show it, he knew that she was furious with him. He, of all people, should know her feelings about sexist remarks, though subtle or halfhearted.

"What happened?" Bruce asked.

"Well, let me see," Diana closed her book again, with a loud snap, continued, "After you were sent to detention, boys howled in laughter, exalted you, threw their yarn and sticks to the ground, and ran out of the classroom—but not before informing Ms. Wallace that her class was a total waste of time. When they were gone, the girls cleaned up the mess _you_ made. We picked up the sticks and yarn, straightened some overturned chairs and tables, and escorted a wailing Ms. Wallace to the girls' bathroom. That was real mature of you, Bruce, to say such a derogatory, hurtful thing. Especially to someone as kind and gracious as Ms. Wallace." Diana suddenly stood up and was about to walk past Bruce when he grabbed her arm.

"Diana, I didn't mean to hurt you—"

"It's not me you should be apologizing to. It's Ms. Wallace," Diana said, still glaring at Bruce.

"I know. Being in detention made me rethink my words and I'm sorry. I'll apologize to Ms. Wallace first thing tomorrow. But I just want to make it clear to you that I didn't really mean what I just said. I had other things in my mind, and with West making fun of me…"

Diana smiled, her disappointment with Bruce ebbing away. "Good ol' Wally. He was the only boy who stayed and helped out."

Bruce frowned at her remark. He expected her to sympathize with him. "The guy knits like a grandmother."

Diana laughed, pushed Bruce lightly in the chest. "There's no reason for you to be jealous of Wally's knack for knitting. Besides, you could have asked me for help."

Bruce looked down, hiding his blush from her. "I get knitted scarf's and hats from Alfred all the time—I don't need one. I don't need to _make_ one."

Diana looked at him with a raised brow. "You need a new hobby." She spread her arms to emphasize her point. "If it weren't for tests and Physics, you'd be stuck here all day."

Bruce only shrugged his shoulders. "It's what I'm made for."

Diana rolled her eyes, ruffled his unruly hair. "You're incorrigible." Accepting his indirect apology, Diana went back to her usual place by the window, picked up her book, and resumed reading. Everyday, until six o'clock, Diana waited for Bruce to finish his experiments. Consumed by silence and routine, they carried out their chores and respective interests. Sometimes, Diana felt compelled to do her homework first, as did Bruce, but after all that was done, they would move on to better things, ones that mattered most to them. For Diana, it was reading Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf; for Bruce, it was mixing chemicals and inventing new gadgets.

Diana watched Bruce measuring his beakers intently, and smiled. Unlike her, he never bothered to follow the social system of pubescence. Her name was distinguished among the student body. Rich and popular, Diana graced the halls with elegance and confidence. Being the daughter of Wonder Corp, the company that produced world-famous cosmetics and skincare elixirs, bolstered her social standing, making her invincible. But hanging around Bruce humbled her, giving her new purpose when high school gossips and whirlwind romances seemed like that was what life was going to be.

Escaping the expectations formed by teachers and fellow classmates, Diana burrowed herself in books, tucked away in the darkest corner of the library where nobody would find her. Nobody except Bruce. She remembered the way he nonchalantly looked at her, at her book, revealing a small smile. He praised her choice of recreation—Dostoyevsky's _Idiot_—and walked on as if she was a fixture in the library, as if she was a normal student who just loved reading books. Since then, she'd follow him everywhere, befriending him and his close friend, Clark Kent. The two of them were like a pair of glasses, giving her clarity and fresh perspective on life.

She soon relinquished her title as cheerleading captain and hung out with honored outcasts, Clark and Bruce. But despite her efforts to stay in the shadows, people still noticed her and kept tabs on her Twitter and facebook, flirted with her as if she still held the mantle of cheerleading captain and homecoming queen.

Diana pushed the thoughts away and glanced down at the green expanse that was the football field. She watched Wally West running around the field with Hal Jordan holding a timer.

Wally and Hal.

Aside from Clark and Bruce, these two were also quite the pair. In spite of Hal's rocketing fame as quarterback of the football team, they still hung out together, but only when Hal's jock friends and the rest of the student body were not witnesses of their secret friendship. It was always on Tuesday afternoons, when no football practice was in session, that they would meet on the field and Wally would do his rounds around the track with Hal urging him on.

Diana never understood why Wally never showed any signs of hurt and anger, as if he were relieved and nonchalant that his best friend since kindergarten felt ashamed to be seen with him on _normal_ days. Every Tuesday afternoon, when they thought that everyone had left, Hal and Wally would hug as if they were long-lost lovers, pumping their fists and resuming their sessions of running races and mud-wrestling.

Diana sighed, touched the windowpane, as if her feelings of sympathy would somehow be conveyed to Wally. Watching him now, it was a wonder why he never joined the track team. Or the football team. But like every teenager, each one had his or her own reasons. And Diana could only wonder what they were.

A hand on her shoulder startled her. She turned to see Bruce looking at her with slight concern.

"You didn't turn around when I asked if you're having dinner at my place," Bruce said.

"Oh. Oh, sorry," Diana apologized, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. She checked her phone for any messages from her mother. None. No messages always meant that Mother was working overtime—again—and Diana was free to spend time with Bruce and his butler and godfather, Alfred. Sometimes Clark dropped in to play around with Bruce's gadgets, but her nights were usually spent at Wayne Manor.

"Yeah. What time is Alfred picking us up?" Diana asked.

Bruce checked his watch for the time. "Same as usual. Six."

Diana glanced at the clock and saw it was quarter to six. "Guess I better get ready." She flipped open her book bag, dumped _Sense and Sensibility_ in it, and checked to see if she had everything. Bruce was all set, waiting for her.

Just then, Clark appeared in the doorway with his bag slung over his shoulder. "Mind if I hitch a ride with you guys?" His timing was perfect. Always.

Diana was rummaging through her things when she realized that she had left her wallet in her locker. Bruce and Clark agreed to walk with her.

After climbing two flights of stairs, they reached the indoor swimming pool. Diana went straight for the girls' changing room, leaving Clark and Bruce to watch Arthur Curry making laps in the chlorinated pool.

Captain of the swimming team, Arthur Curry—always referred to as 'The Englishman'—would have been mistaken for a soul surfer hailing from sun-kissed beaches if it were not for his Cockney accent. With medium-length, silky-smooth blonde hair, bright green eyes, and chiseled arms and abs, Arthur was the face and talent of the swimming team, garnering first place for two consecutive years since he moved here. It was rumored that Arthur knew how to ride the waves, too. He was like the god of the sea, gliding instead of riding, flying instead of swimming.

"Sorry for the wait," Diana said, rushing to them. She followed their gaze when she sensed someone walking toward them.

"Diana Prince, marvelous to see someone of your caliber on this slippery side of campus," Arthur said, taking her hand and pecking it. He then turned his attention to Clark and Bruce, smiling at them. "Good to see you, gents. Oh, I heard of this morning's scuffle in Ms. Wallace's class. Interesting take on knitting, I must say."

Bruce only nodded. "Such slip of the words is hardly admirable."

"Indeed," Arthur said, wiping himself dry.

Bruce glanced at the clock—five minutes to six. "We have to go. See you, Arthur."

"See you—"

Suddenly, the ground beneath them shook, pushed them out of balance as if something had exploded nearby and they were experiencing the ripples of the blast. Diana nearly fell to the ground but Bruce caught her hand, pulling her toward the doorway for support. Clark and Arthur followed them, braced themselves.

When the quake finally stopped, they looked at each other in question, wondering in silence what had just happened.

"Let's get out of here, in case it happens again," Clark said.

They ran down the flight of stairs, down the hallway, and out of the main entrance. They looked around and found nothing out of the ordinary. No shattered windows, cracked concrete, broken lampposts. Everything was still, undisturbed.

"That was weird," Arthur said, scratching his head.

"Tell me about it. It's like, we're the only ones who felt it," Clark said, watching a car drive by.

"No way, man. Holy shit. This cannot be real," Hal Jordan's voice was faint but it rose above the silence that surrounded them. The group ran around the left side of the building, toward the football field.

As soon as the lawn was in their line of sight, their attention immediately honed on the spaceship that crash-landed in middle of the football field. Smoke and burned metal filled the air, but the shock of seeing an actual alien aircraft immobilized them completely.

"Dudes!" Wally said, running toward them. "A spaceship! In our school. This is just… so cool," Wally said, practically jumping up for joy. Hal was inching toward the spaceship, looking for any signs of activity.

"We have to check it out," Clark said, inching forward. He stopped beside Hal, exchanging ideas if any survivors could have lived through the crash.

"They're aliens, of course they'll live through anything. Even if their ship crashes in our school's backyard," Hal said.

"Yeah, but you never know. We've never really had a history of aliens crash-landing on school grounds before."

"Only one way to find out," Hal said, venturing to touch the ship in hopes that it would trigger the latch to open.

"We better not touch anything. Yet. We don't know what it's capable of, both the alien _and _the ship," Bruce cautioned them.

Before anyone could utter another word, the latch hissed open, emitting a burst of contained air. The group shielded their eyes. When they reopened them, a strange-looking figure stood limply in the doorway, its face masked by the smoke. Diana gasped when she saw a clearer outline of the creature. Its head was long and pointed at the tip, its limbs long and thin, its legs or feet were extended like a horse's hind limb. And as the smoke cleared, the alien's complexion was an emerald green.

"Holy Sweet Baby Jesus, I'm living the Steven Spielberg movie," Hal muttered under his breath.

Diana let go of Bruce's arm—she hadn't realized she was holding onto him so tightly—and looked up at the creature. She noticed its purplish eyes—no irises, just a saturated color of iridescent purple. And then she saw a dark line running down its head. A color that could only mean blood.

"He's hurt!" Diana exclaimed, climbing up the latch, ignoring Bruce's protests to be wary. As soon as she touched its weak arms, its knees buckled, its weight crumbling onto the floor. Diana ripped a portion of her skirt to stop the bleeding on its temple. Bruce was by her side then, checking its vitals.

"He doesn't seem to be in critical condition. Maybe he hit his head a little. But there could only be one way to be sure," Bruce said.

"The hospital?" Arthur suggested.

"No. Alfred." Bruce flipped his phone open and hit speed dial.

While Bruce was on the phone, Hal, Wally, and Clark were debating on whether it was a good idea to call the FBI, CIA or Area 51.

"Only one way to find out if he's here to attack us," Wally said, rushing through the doorway. Just then, Wally realized how small the ship was, almost as small as an escape pod on Star Trek. There didn't seem to be any signs of big laser guns, just controls to steer the ship.

"We'll be famous!" Hal exclaimed. "I can just see it, Hal Jordan and classmates find spaceship at high school. Sweet."

"Not entirely true," Clark countered. "Once we inform the FBI, CIA, or Area 51, they'll wipe our memories clean. We'll hardly be mentioned in their files even."

"So what do we do about this? We can't just hide him or something. Not when this is on school property," Arthur said.

"In…" the Martian pointed at a green button right next to the steering wheel. Wally looked at it, then at the Martian.

"Does he want me to press it? What if he wants me to blow us up to smithereens?" Wally asked.

"Invi… sible. Press… button. No… harm…" And with that, the Martian lost consciousness.

"If you say so, green guy," Wally said, pushing the button before anyone else could object.

And just like that, the ship disappeared from sight.

"Like that's going to help us," Hal said. "Even though no one will see a spaceship lying on the lawn, they will see a hole in the ground. And there's football practice tomorrow. Wouldn't the team be in for a surprise when they hit their heads against an invisible spaceship or what?"

"We'll have to drive it then," Bruce said, walking to the main controls. "I just talked with Alfred and I told him to expect company. An injured one."

"Bruce, as much as I applaud you for thinking things through, you have never driven a spaceship before!" Clark said, freaking out slightly.

"Can't be as hard as steering a jet," Hal said, shrugging his shoulders.

Bruce made way for Hal to sit in the master chair. He then ordered everyone else to take a seat or brace themselves. Diana sat on the floor, unmoving, holding the Martian tightly in her arms. Wally and Arthur sat next to Diana, while Bruce and Clark stood on either side of Hal, clutching the chair for dear life.

"When did you fly a jet?" Wally asked.

"The arcade. Duh." Hal said, pressing a red button.

Suddenly, the ship jerked awake. Hal noticed a lever on the side and gave it a slow tug. Soon, the ship slowly lifted off the ground, and as Hal pulled the lever more, the higher the ship went. When he was sure that they were high enough to miss hitting any buildings, Hal let go of the lever and steered the wheel. The ride was bumpy at first, lurching forward and back, from side to side, and Wally was on the verge of throwing up his lunch.

"Dude, stop lurching," Wally groaned.

"Hey, I'm trying here. Be grateful I haven't bumped into an office building or something," Hal said. After getting better acclimated to the controls, Hal asked Bruce, "Where to, Wayne?"

"Turn right on Bludhaven Avenue, down Star Street, then take a right on Central Avenue. Keep going straight. The house is at the end."

"Gotcha." Hal said, steering onto Bludhaven, through air and clouds.

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_To be continued…_

You like? No like? Let me know!

And suggestions are most welcome.


	2. The Justice Club

Thank you for your reviews! I didn't expect to receive this much on my first chapter. I hope this one also meets your expectations.

Enjoy!

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He lied about having no experience in flying a jet. Unbeknownst to his friends, including Wally, Hal's summer vacations with his father comprised of cruising above the Atlantic Ocean, overlooking green ridges, white puffy clouds, and the oceanic carpet. Soaring in the air, closer to the stars, fighting gravity, he had always felt limitless when he was in the sky. Even though the view was not as spectacular as the Caribbean, just being above ground was enough to calm his nerves, to stop the chaos resurfacing from within. To Hal, it was like reaching the enlightened stage of yoga, where everything was a blank, at a standstill, just serenity. For a moment, Hal had forgotten his parents' divorce, the pressures of maintaining his popularity; that a Martian crash-landed in the football field, that he was flying an alien spacecraft.

Losing himself, he missed the turn at Central Avenue.

"Turn around," Bruce said calmly, watching Hal intently, as if he could read the deception in Hal's ace maneuvers.

Hal nodded, steered the wheel effortlessly, and made a beeline to Wayne Manor. He turned around slightly, checking how the strangest of personalities were faring.

Diana's grip around the alien resembled that of a mother's—protective yet gentle; Wally hugged his knees, numbing his fear by rocking back and forth like a babbling mental patient; and Arthur sat cross-legged in yogic stance, his mouth slightly open, allowing the lack of thought to pave the way for stability.

"Didn't know computer games could teach you how to fly an actual jet," Clark pointed out. His grip on the chair had loosened by now.

Hal only shrugged his shoulders. "Teaches you hand-eye coordination. Besides," Hal paused, caught sight of the manor's roof up ahead. He imagined his apartment filling only half of the living room. "There are times when you gotta run before you crawl."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Truly inspiring."

"Don't you mean _walk_ before you crawl?" Clark added, trying not to sound rude.

Hal ignored them, began their descent as he veered to the side, brushed against a large tree—causing Wally to yelp in surprise—hovered in the air before landing in the backyard that seemed to stretch beyond the horizon, endlessly. As he eased onto grassy floor, he almost lost control with the lever at the last minute, causing their focus to shift as if their eyes were those silver balls in a pinball machine.

"Incoming!" Wally exclaimed, staggering to his feet, clutching his stomach with a hand barring the dam from bursting.

Hal only knew what that meant. He immediately pushed the button he presumed to open the latch. Wally then ran outside, purging his insides of the cafeteria's mystery meat and brown carrots.

"Mint, sir?" Alfred offered coolly, parked by the French windows, as if seeing a red-haired boy emerge out of nowhere and puking his insides on the lawn was nothing but the ordinary. He had to admit, however, this was the most unusual spectacle Master Bruce ever came up with. And yet it made his life all the more exciting. The war definitely paled in comparison to his years of service with the Waynes.

"We're getting a new vacuum cleaner." Bruce said, walking past Wally who laid face down in exhaustion.

"Agreed," Alfred said, nodding his head. He greeted the rest of the gang as they climbed down a short ramp, but as soon as he saw Diana struggling to keep an unconscious alien steady—with the help of Arthur from the opposite side—Alfred was speechless for the first time since Master Bruce made him pancakes that resembled a deflated blimp.

"Sir?" Alfred asked, after a moment of silence on his part. He rubbed his eyes to comprehend the reality he was now witnessing.

"Yeah," Bruce nodded in confirmation. "The brown bag I told you to bring was initially for Wally." Bruce pointed at the paper bag that Alfred held in his gloved hand. "But you can put it to better use." Bruce patted his butler's back, urged him to slow his breathing with it.

Alfred gave Bruce a serious look—the look that said nothing could faze the great Alfred Pennyworth—and led the way to the sitting area inside. Clark had by now taken Diana's place, convincing her with a winning argument that carrying an alien was a gentleman's job.

Bruce and Diana were left behind; along with Wally who groaned next to his vomit, watching the strong backs of schoolmates they never thought would step onto Alfred's masterpiece that was the marble floor's pristine upkeep.

"This is a strange development," Diana said.

"The alien or the people who just walked into my house?" Bruce said, slightly confused as to which was more unexpected.

"I would say both, but I guess an alien would score bigger points," Diana said, more convinced now.

Bruce thought about it, nodded in agreement. "Yeah, guess so."

"C'mon, help me get Wally up," Diana said after a short pause. She knelt down beside Wally, whose eyes instantly popped open at her warm touch.

"Hey, beautiful," Wally said, grabbing her hand.

Diana laughed, pulled him up. Wally was astonished of her subtle, unbridled strength. Although, in retrospect Diana was head cheerleader and gold medalist of the gymnastics team so it shouldn't come as a surprise.

"There's lemonade to wash down the bile," Bruce said, waiting by the back entrance.

"Thanks," Wally said, giving Bruce a big smile. "And sorry about the… you know, the accident. I'll clean it up in a second." Wally said, blushing.

"The vacuum's in the laundry room. Or ask Alfred. He usually does the cleaning," Bruce said, heading toward the kitchen.

Wally sighed when Bruce disappeared into the wide doors that led to the kitchen. "He hates me even more now."

"No, he doesn't," Diana assured him. "That's just how he is. He's not your usual happy camper. And if he hates you, he'll ignore completely. Trust me, if he talks to you, he likes you."

Wally mulled it over in his head, grinned. "Guess that's good enough for me, Di. By the way, you don't mind me calling you Di, do you? Think it suits you better."

Diana hugged him, wiped the corner of his mouth with her Hermes handkerchief. "I like it."

And that's when Wally drank in the massive elegance of Wayne Manor. His eyes traced his first step onto holy ground, from the French windows that separated him and the backyard, giving light to the most beautiful interior Wally had ever seen in his life. Standing in the middle of the living room, carpeted and surrounded by ornate draperies, matching furniture, and a fireplace, Wally's eyes roamed the wall-filled bookshelves and high ceiling—the enormity of the space overwhelmed him. He whistled, expecting an echo to bounce off the covered walls. Though the décor alone didn't exude warmth, something about the room did. And that's when Wally saw it. It wasn't the sunlight that fought to push the shadows away. It was the family portrait, a conglomerate of love and happiness that most families could only dream of. As Wally took a step closer, looking at a younger version of Bruce, he felt like a thief stealing a glimpse of Bruce's secret.

"Bruce doesn't really talk much about his childhood," Diana said, standing beside him, sharing the view.

"Do you know what happened?" Wally asked.

"Only what most people know. Car accident." Diana said, feeling guilty for divulging such personal information.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I mean, sorry for Bruce. I never knew," Wally said.

"Yeah, Alfred told me. Bruce always clams shut whenever I ask about his parents."

"How old was he?" Wally asked, growing curious.

"I was ten," Bruce said, looming behind them.

Both Wally and Diana jumped up, holding each other as if they just saw a ghost. Bruce only glared at Wally's arms around Diana.

Wally met Bruce's hard stare, instantly let go of Diana. "Sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"Lemonade," Bruce said, offering a glass to Wally.

Wally took it with his head bent down, averting Bruce's searing gaze.

Feeling flattered and sympathetic for Wally, Diana approached Bruce, took his face in her hands, and said, "Keep frowning like that, you'll need a facelift. Or one of Mother's overpriced anti-aging serums."

The lines on Bruce's forehead instantly disappeared, a small smile brightening his face. "Are you implying I look distinguished?"

"Not really. You actually resemble Mr. Rochester," Diana said jokingly.

Bruce lightly chuckled, leaned his forehead on hers. "And you're _my_ Jane Eyre?"

Diana looked into his eyes, surprise muting her. "You asking me out, Mr. Wayne?" Diana whispered in his ear.

Just then, the implication of his words hit him like he were a deer caught in the headlights. "No, no, not really. I was just… uh…" He tore away from Diana's hold, retreating to the kitchen. "Dinner's ready, by the way."

When Bruce was gone, Diana heard Wally's loud sigh, as if he's been holding it in the whole time.

"Awkward…" Wally muttered under his breath. When Diana remained motionless, Wally felt like slapping himself, grabbed her hand. "You heard the man, let's eat. I'm starving."

"You're already hungry after what just happened?" Diana asked.

"Just because an alien crash-landed in our school doesn't mean I'd starve myself," Wally said.

"That's not what I mean. You just puked all your lunch," Diana said, giving him a funny, almost disgusted, look.

"And breakfast. I saw half of the blueberry muffin I had this morning. But anyways, my stomach's completely empty now and I need to recharge. So yeah, give me TV dinners, club sandwich, anything, I'm as hungry as a shark." Wally said, rubbing his palms together. He breezed into the kitchen, expecting a plate of sandwich at least, when heaping plates of beautifully roasted chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and creamed spinach filled his nostrils, putting his five senses in overdrive.

"I think I died and went to food heaven. Or I'm dreaming," Wally pinched himself, felt pain, wiped the drool off his chin.

"Here, I put an extra drumstick in your plate," Hal handed Wally a teeming plate of homemade goodness.

Wally took it most willingly and began gorging his mouth with mashed potatoes and chicken. Diana wordlessly sat next to Bruce, who gave her another spoonful of creamed spinach, her favorite.

Sitting on stools around the kitchen island, Diana watched the boys pick their food, except for Wally whose chewing masked the uncomfortable silence in the room. Alfred was nowhere to be found—Diana quickly assumed that he was caring for the alien in the dining room. Alfred's sanctuary was in the kitchen, so it was likely that he asked the boys to lay the alien on the dining table, away from the food and clean sheets. The living room's sofa was also out of the question; bloodstains would have given the butler a coronary. Moreover, eating in the dining room only brought memories of dinnertime with Bruce's parents, so Bruce hardly stepped foot into the room, even when Clark and Diana shared meals with him. Eating in the kitchen gave Bruce more peace.

"So what now?" Clark asked, having enough of Wally's munching and the sound of tinkering silverware.

"I say, call the FBI. Or Gotham Times. We'll hit it big," Hal repeated, imagining his name printed in bold letters.

"Or the Smithsonian Institution. Only the scientific community will give light to our discovery, the first ever discovery of alien life form. The media will only distort the facts," Arthur said.

Hal considered it. "Them too, sure. The more the better."

"I can even write about it firsthand," Clark added. "I'll make front page, not just DC Times, but in Gotham Times. No, better yet, the New York Times." Clark nearly squealed in delight. "Do you realize how this will pave the way for my career? I could even get a full-ride scholarship to Columbia or Northwestern."

"Who cares about college when you can be on talk shows just for spotting an alien spacecraft? Now that's what life's about." Hal said, leaning back with his mind wandering to dreamland.

"Sure, you'll be known as _one_ of the kids who found the alien but then what afterwards? It's not like they'll keep paying for your five-minute guest appearances once in ten years," Clark said.

"Of course I won't rely on guest appearances the whole time. That's why I'm gonna write a book about it. An autobiography," Hal said, sighing with satisfaction.

"You're actually going to write a book? In your sleep?" Arthur chuckled.

"Hey, that's what publishing companies are for. They edit, edit, edit. I just dish out the important stuff," Hal said, folding his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, football and aliens. Real important," Clark said, joining in with Arthur's laugh.

"Whatever. Just you wait, I'm gonna hit it big. You can laugh all you want now, but we'll see who's gonna laugh in ten, fifteen years when I'm all famous and shit," Hal said, unfazed by their teasing.

"No one's laughing at each other. Not in ten, fifteen, or sixty years." Diana said, standing up to make her point. "We're not telling anyone about what we've seen. Not the press, not any scientific institution, not your _other_ friends. This alien sighting stays with us, within this circle," Diana drew an imaginary circle for emphasis. As she listened to the boys' narcissistic discussion of fame and personal gains, she nearly hurled her untouched food at them. How could they think of gaining something out of someone else's pain? They didn't even know anything about the alien. For all she knew, it could be lost, stranded, alone, and all its _saviors_ could think of were giving it over to authorities that would cut it open, fry its brains, poke it with a thousand needles, flashing their cameras in its face.

"You guys are unforgivable. Just plain selfish. You all should be ashamed of yourselves," Diana pushed her chair with such force, causing it to fall back. "Men," she muttered under her breath with vehemence. Diana left them to mull over their words, in hopes that the guilt would eat them alive. She disappeared into the dining room, checking up on the Martian's progress.

Silence filled the room. Wally had lost his appetite at this point.

"Thanks, guys. Now I have to calm her down," Bruce said, rubbing his temples. "But I agree with her. We can't tell anyone about this. It'll only complicate things."

"Complicate things? It'll only make things easier for us. We'll be famous, rich…"

"Dammit, Jordan! Stop acting like a self-righteous fame-whore. The government wouldn't want this to get out. It'll only freak people out, and that's the last thing the government wants to deal with at this point. And with the bad economy, the government will hardly buy us to secrecy. They'll hunt us down, lock us up in their white, padded cells, and wipe our memories clean. And then they'll do God-knows-what to the alien. If we're lucky, we'll be able to live normal lives, not knowing what just happened. That is, if we're lucky."

"What happens if we're unlucky?" Wally asked.

"We'd be brain dead, lobotomized, like a goldfish in a fishbowl," Clark said, nodding.

"C'mon, that's stupid. How would you know that, you're only sixteen-year-old kid who spends time in a chemistry lab all day? You make it sound like you work for the CIA or something," Hal scoffed.

"My dad used to," Bruce said quietly, though the group heard it clearly. "And all I can tell you is if you take this to the public, they're going to make sure you never come back out alive. So don't be stupid." Bruce glared at them, stood up, and went to one of the cupboards.

"Anyone want take away?" Bruce said with empty plastic containers in hand.

Wally had both hands high up in the air. "Oh, me! Me! Me!"

Wordlessly, Bruce gave Wally five Tupperwares, handed two of each to the other guys. "Give it to your mom and dad if you don't want it. I hate wasting food."

They complied, heaping foods into plastic containers. Suddenly, Diana appeared in the threshold, prompting the boys to look up.

"It just woke up, but it needs its rest. Doesn't seem to remember how he got here in the first place though," Diana said, disappearing again into the other room.

Bruce followed her with the gang in tow. They circled around the alien, who was sitting cross-legged and drinking chicken soup with a straw. Alfred told Bruce that it seemed to understand English but there were times when it answered in a different language, presumably its native tongue. The Martian looked at Bruce, as if Bruce could read its mind.

"How's the soup?" Bruce asked.

It nodded, its facial expression unreadable, like Bruce most of the time.

"What's your name?" Clark asked. When the alien only stared, Clark rephrased the question. "Do you have a name? Something we can call you by."

The alien looked down, thought about it. "J'onnnn... J'onzzz."

"John John?" Arthur said. "Sounds repetitive."

"Nah, sounds more like John Jones," Wally said.

"Hmm, it fits him, oddly enough," Diana said, smiling at the Martian.

John Jones tilted its head in confusion, held up its hand to touch Diana. Right then, Hal intervened, cautioning the alien not to harm Diana. He held his hand up defensively, but the Martian didn't seem to comprehend Hal's true intent; it thought that Hal was doing some form of greeting. John Jones looked at Hal's hand, then at its own, and made the connection. It high-fived Hal.

Dumbstruck, Hal only stared at the Martian, who now mimicked Diana's smile, showing off glinting pearly whites.

"Dude, you're literally living the Steven Spielberg movie," Wally said, breaking the connection between John and Hal.

"It doesn't talk much, does he?" Arthur said, inching closer, studying the alien's elongated foot.

As the gang tried to make sense of their alien visitor, Hal backed away, staring at his hand. In that moment of physical contact, Hal caught a glimpse of the Martian's memory: a family waving at it, a wife and son, and then an explosion destroying everything it loved. The image was fleeting yet the emotions struck Hal hard, like a demolition ball knocking the wind out of him. Hal was familiar with it, the pain of longing and separation, of wanting to piece the past together but it was too late, because everything was gone. Everything he believed in could no longer be put back together. And Hal shared the same loneliness as the Martian. And as Hal stared at the alien, it caught his gaze, and their eyes locked together.

For the first time in his life, Hal felt like he could protect something. He finally had something worth fighting for, something be could prevent from breaking, something he could help piece back together. With a deep breath, Hal was resolute and sure of himself, for the first time.

"It's settled then. We don't mention anything about John here. Bruce is right. From this moment on, we make a pact that we keep this a secret, we protect _him_ at all costs, and we keep him safe. We'll try to teach him what we know or help him find his way back home, whatever, but we're all in this together. What do you guys say?"

Instead of waiting for a reply, everyone around the room gave him a look, a look of renewed admiration, and they all nodded in assent. A new alliance has been born.

"Since we're practically a team here, what name should we call ourselves?" Wally asked.

"A name?" Clark asked.

"Yeah, something we can refer to. You gotta need a name if we want to regroup and stuff," Wally said.

"What about 'Alien Alliance'?" Arthur suggested.

"No, it's too obvious. The Alphas?" Clark said.

"Sounds chauvinistic to me," Diana said. "I think Wonder Team has a nice ring to it."

"We're not your mom's subsidiary," Hal said, shaking his head. "Oh, I have a good one: Green Corps."

"Hmmm… not bad. But it's still quite the giveaway," Wally said, thinking hard it almost hurt.

"The Justice Club," Bruce said after a moment's silence.

Everybody looked at him, mulling it over, reciting it in their heads silently.

"Why 'The Justice Club'?" Diana asked.

Bruce shrugged his shoulders. "It just fits… for all of us. We all have alter egos that live up to society's expectations. We represent a share of the school caste: jock, journalist, swimmer, cheerleader, loner, runner, alien—everyone expects us to stay the same and assumes that whatever we do now defines our future. But in the end, it's up to us to decide how we want to lead our lives. It really depends on how we let it take over our lives. And that's our turning point. That's justice. It's doing what's right. For us; in our hearts." A pause. "That's my opinion anyway."

Clark smiled, feeling proud of his friend. "The Justice Club, it is. Unless anyone has objections?"

No one raised a hand or uttered a word. A consensus has been made. The Justice Club it is.

~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~

To be continued…

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	3. Cat's Out of the Bag

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Bruce should have known that an alien sighting could only entail problems and unwanted attention. After christening themselves 'The Justice Club', Bruce now found himself in the midst of even louder people, one such as Wally West. As soon as Alfred dropped him off at school, Wally was waiting for him by the school's entrance, asking how John Jones was doing. Bruce could only satisfy him with a quirk reply, assuring him that the Martian was alive and well, sleeping soundly in the guest bathroom.

"You left him in the bathroom?" Wally asked out loud. Bruce ducked his head lower, quickened his pace along the hallway, dodging curious stares and Wally's proximity to his ear.

Bruce stopped short when he saw his locker, which was surrounded by the rest of the gang—apart from Hal Jordan. So much for a quiet morning. With his head bent down, Bruce walked to his locker. He glared at them when neither one moved aside so he could crack the combination to retrieve his Physics textbook. When they finally got the hint and gave him space, Bruce continued to ignore them, torturing them in anticipation. Diana blew out a sigh, punched his shoulder.

"Stop _menopausing_ and tell us already, Bruce," she said, her hands resting on her hips.

"He left John in the bathroom," Wally tattled. Bruce whirled around, scowling at the redhead while rubbing his germinal bruise.

Bruce turned around, finally said, "We offered the guest bedroom but he sprang out of the bed just as soon as he sat down on it. He was afraid that it would eat him alive or suck him into God knows where. No matter how long Alfred and I role-played the comforts of sleeping in a bed, he wouldn't budge. And then he saw the bathroom and practically crashed into the bathtub. Slept like a baby as soon as his head hit the acrylic."

"Hmmm… guess aliens like hard surfaces," Clark said, writing it down in his notepad.

"You're not writing an article, are you?" Arthur said, glancing over Clark's shoulder.

Clark gave the blonde teen a funny look. "What do you take me for? I'm just jotting down some observations as we go along. We can later use it as reference."

Suddenly, loud, inaudible whispers filled the hallway. The whole school seemed to echo of gasps and disbelief, with overexcited teenagers scrambling out the backdoor, leading them to a six-feet deep hole in the middle of the football field; where the crash site waited in anticipation, gaining attention. The uproar soon brought the principal out of his office, pushing past the student body, dissuading some from walking out the door while he himself wanted to confirm the rumor mill firsthand, front and center. Diana didn't even bother to ask what was happening.

"Lois is having a field day," Diana pointed out, following Lois Lane dragging Jimmy out the door. She gave Clark a surreptitious glance; he too eyed the brunette, adjusted his reading glasses.

"Why do you wear them?" Diana said, referring to Clark's eyewear.

"Satiating my need to accessorize," Clark replied, adjusting them. "And they're not fake, mind you. They're reading glasses."

"Dude, you're writing, not reading," Arthur said matter-of-factly.

Clark squinted his eyes at Arthur. The way Arthur enunciated 'dude' just didn't sound right. Maybe it was because he was British. Or maybe it was how he prolonged the letter u, making it sound like he was saying 'dew' with a d in the end instead of the American way of properly pronouncing things. Either way, it was off. "Don't you need to be somewhere else, like swimming in your pond or something?"

"Pool, not pond," Arthur sounded offended. "But you're right. Championship's next week. I'll see you guys later," Arthur announced, shouldering his bag. He slapped Bruce's back before walking away.

"Just because we happened to spot an alien together doesn't mean we're chums now," Bruce muttered under his breath. The thought of being around the likes of Wally, Hal, and Arthur chilled him. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension between his shoulder blades.

"No, but dubbing ourselves 'The Justice Club' does that. Anyways," Clark said, signaling for his friends to follow. "Let's see how the student body is starting up the rumor mill." He led them outside, to the football field, squeezing between disgruntled students standing on their toes and craning their necks for a better view. After a series of apologies and shoving people off their feet, Clark finally reached Lois' side, standing two feet from the gaping hole.

"A small-scale job for a terrorist, I must say," Lois said without glancing up at Clark.

"Is that what Lex is spreading around?" Clark feigned taking notes. He looked at Lex, who was standing on the other side of the hole, opposite Clark, discussing conjectures with the principal. For the first time in his life, Clark felt superior that he knew the absolute truth; and yet, he could never shove it in Luthor's face. Even if he witnessed the truth, he could never gloat about it. Not even a Martian could give him an upper hand over Lex. As if nothing ever could. Clark sighed.

"Got a better idea?" Lois asked, noticing Clark's disappointed face.

"Sure," Clark cleared his throat. "You know how Lex Corp invented a drilling machine that could make a hole all the way to China? My guess is, Lex found his starting point."

Lois hung her head. "That is the most absurd thing you have ever come up with about Lex. And did I forget to mention how obsessed you are with him?"

Clark chuckled. "Possible and valid if you think about it."

"Then put it to the test. Ask him," Lois said, nodding in Lex's direction.

"You're letting me interview him?" Clark asked.

"I have conspiracy theories that could last me five issues now. I don't need another one. Especially one about our _beloved_ president. You get first page for this one. Don't mess it up," Lois warned, turning around. She immediately caught sight of one of the club's members, grabbed him by his collar, picked a spot far from the crowd and out of earshot.

"Clark's got headline news. I don't need two similar stories in the same page, even though yours ends up sounding like we're being invaded by North Korea," Lois said.

Vic Sage adjusted his blue fedora hat, straightened his tie. He jotted down the remainder of his stray thoughts before giving her his undivided attention. His thick eyebrows, shadowed further by the tip of his hat, shielded his green gaze, and the shock of red hair seemed like a nuclear accident against the quirky mystery he exuded. "I was thinking more along the lines of Lex Corp's drilling machine. Or little green men invading Earth sounds equally plausible…"

"Stop. Just… stop," Lois pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing deeply. One of the biggest downside with a club was that she was in position to _fire_ anyone, and anyone—no matter how weird and annoying, namely Vic and Clark, respectively—could just join with no resumes, interviews, flogging required. In fact, the more the merrier. If only the feeling was mutual. "Just… I'll… I need an icepack. I'll talk with you later."

"I was going to meet with some employees at Lex Corp this afternoon," Vic started.

"Meeting's at 4. I wouldn't miss it if I were you," Lois said, walking away.

Vic pulled out his phone and dialed Lex Corp's number. "Yeah, it's Sage. I need to reschedule. How does 12:30 sound?"

Meanwhile, Bruce, Diana, and Wally left Clark to handle the media, walking en route to first period. Wally was whistling an unfamiliar tune, aggravating Bruce even more. Diana only smiled at Bruce's sour face. She bid the boys goodbye at the door of her classroom.

"I'll see you guys later," Diana said, winking in Bruce's direction.

"A girl like that, she's a gem. You gotta grab her before someone else does," Wally said, patting Bruce's back before heading in the other direction. "Later, man."

Bruce didn't so much as glance or nod when Wally waved him adieu for now. He went straight to Physics, one of the classes he was more than willing to show his face, and sat in his usual chair in the back row. Bruce glanced briefly at his seatmate, who bore the same bored expression as Bruce during English class.

"Wayne," Oliver Queen said, tipping his green cap as a sign of greeting. The man was like a walking leprechaun; only taller, blonde, and admittedly handsome with soft hazel-brown eyes. Captain of the school's archery club, Ollie was the personification of calm and shrewdness. Bruce respected that sort of person but he still kept a distance. Ollie reminded Bruce too much of his own lifestyle—only difference was Ollie's parents were still alive.

"Queen," Bruce acknowledged.

"You caused quite the riot in Wallace's class yesterday," Ollie said.

"Sounds like the whole school's heard about it," Bruce said, growing tired of Ms. Wallace, knitting, and the _little _commotion he caused yesterday.

"Well, much as I appreciate the next guy who stands up for all manhood, I just walked past the teacher's lounge this morning and Ms. Wallace was sobbing in the corner." Ollie paused, met Bruce's emotionless gaze. "Don't mean to pry but an apology might be in order. There's one thing about making a point, but there's another about making a woman cry."

Bruce looked away, massaged his temples as if a migraine was beginning to spread. "Diana already told me once. I'll apologize after third period."

Slightly satisfied, Ollie nodded. "Yeah, don't mean to pry…"

Just then Mr. Hamilton walked in, followed by a petite blond bombshell in his wake. A new student, it was inevitable that all attention was on her, especially with someone as attractive as she; she drew enchanted stares from the boys and envious glares from the female populace in the classroom.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Dinah Lance. She's originally from Texas but she's lived in some countries in Asia and Europe." He immediately turned to Dinah. "What were they again, if you don't mind sharing to the class?" Mr. Hamilton asked, encouraging her.

Dinah obliged, blushing slightly. At this point, the boys were drooling. "My dad's one of the commanding officers in the military so we've been traveling a lot since I was five. I've lived in Germany, Japan, and Kuwait. And then my dad got an offer here at Gotham just a few weeks ago, so here I am."

As soon as she finished her introductory speech, the boys gave her a big round of applause, whistling and cheering her on. Mr. Hamilton held his hands up to quiet them down—to no avail—and gestured to the empty seat in the middle, right next to Helena Bertinelli, who was filing her nails. Dinah smiled at the Italian beauty, but Helena instantly ignored her as if she were the wind, nonexistent, just passing through.

Second in command of the gymnastics team, Helena's strong legs and amazing back flips could steal the show. But Diana was better in more ways than one. Diana had personality and grace, while Helena was pure technique and strength. The latter lacked the makings of stardom, and though she envied Diana's regal confidence, Helena felt more threatened at the sight of newcomer, Dinah Lance. Perhaps it was her blonde waves that shined even more against the sunlight. Or her sultry gaze that made boys ogle her every move. Even Mr. Hamilton noticed the way she glided past him. Apart from the gymnastics team, Helena was a sports junkie in the popular scene. After Diana Prince relinquished her title as cheerleading captain, Helena was first runner-up. She was also head of the judo club, volleyball team, and field hockey. For some unknown reason, Helena had an inkling that she met her match in Dinah.

She didn't know why but she just had the feeling. Not to mention that Ollie never took his eyes off the blonde the minute she stepped into the classroom. Helena's history with _Robin Hood_ wannabe was brief yet passionate. In the past, they rendezvoused in the janitor's closet, the boiler room, even the empty audio room in the auditorium. Ollie was the first guy that showed emotions past makeup sessions; he would open doors for her, ask how her day was while nuzzling her neck, say hello in the hallway. Unlike other guys, he acknowledged her existence.

They never made their relationship official, however. Partly it was her fault. She never believed in dating. It was too much work, too much time spent on recreation when she could just get to the best part: sex. To her dismay, Ollie felt completely otherwise. He was a hopeless romantic; one time he asked when he could meet her parents. It irked her when he began showing public displays of affection. She hated attracting attention, and he was like a puppy that followed her everywhere. And that's when she made the move to break up with him. The news devastated him. And her, eventually. She did genuinely like him. It was just that she liked sex more. He, on the other hand, wanted to share feelings and hobbies. After their official-_unofficial_ breakup, he didn't speak with her for weeks, didn't so much glance her way. But when they spotted each other in the mall after two months of silence, he finally put the past behind them, saying hi before walking past her. She could tell that the hurt still lingered, but bit by bit he forgave her. And even though he could never look at her the same way, there was a mutual agreement that all was well.

But now with Dinah Lance in their midst, Helena felt uncertain of the future, of what she was capable of doing. She continued filing her nails, glancing at Ollie from time to time, seeing green everywhere.

"What's up with you and Helena?" Bruce asked out of nowhere. He noticed Helena looking their way once in awhile.

"Oh. We broke up. Long time ago," Ollie said nonchalantly, gazing at Dinah's backside dreamily. He wondered if her platinum hair was natural. Sure seemed like it.

"Never knew you guys were official," Bruce said.

"Never were," Ollie said, finally facing Bruce, momentarily distracted. "She called it off when I asked her to go on a date with me. First girl who made me feel used, tossed away like an old ragdoll."

Instead of feeling sympathy, Bruce pitied him. "Dating is a waste of time anyway."

"Ah, so maybe you and her will get along nicely. She feels the same way," Ollie said.

Bruce gave Ollie a smug look. "Like hell I would ask her out. She's like a walking venereal disease waiting to break out. Don't think I don't know how many guys she's slept with."

"Seriously? How many?" Ollie asked, stunned.

"Don't be stupid. It was a rhetorical question," Bruce said, shaking his head in annoyance.

"Well, let me assure you, I used protection…" Ollie started.

"Oh, stop. Disgusting," Bruce covered his ear, grabbed his pen, and opened his notebook.

"Don't be prude, Wayne. It's only natural for us _men_ to discuss these sorta things…" Ollie said, noticing the abrupt quietness in the room.

"What _sorta_ things, Mr. Queen?" Mr. Hamilton stood right in front of Ollie, who didn't even notice the older man's arrival.

"You know, science stuff," Ollie covered up. "Real interesting stuff, science."

"Yes, well, midterms is next week so I suggest you and Mr. Wayne actually listen to the lecture. I'll overlook this for now, considering it doesn't happen very often that you two disrupt my class," Mr. Hamilton said, walking back to the blackboard.

Ollie tipped his hat lower to hide his eyes, thanked God that he didn't leak his intimate conversation with Bruce to the whole class. Especially with Dinah Lance… looking at him…

He smiled at her. She quickly returned it, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. Ollie took off his cap, mesmerized by the curve of her lips. Like a noir film in slow motion, Ollie felt like she was the only one in the room, the enigmatic damsel in distress, her long lashes moving slowly, emphasizing the doleful largeness of her gaze.

So enchanted was he that he didn't notice the bell or how she now stood right in front of him. She took his hand, wrote down a series of numbers, and strode out of the classroom, leaving behind wistful stares and crushed daydreams. Ollie looked down and felt like jumping up for joy when he realized she gave him her number. He quickly fished out his phone and saved her number before he smudged her beautiful penmanship.

Bruce shook his head, was on the way to his next class when he saw Ms. Wallace in the hallway, walking in his direction. Bruce felt like breaking into a run in the opposite direction but he knew better than to stall. Plus, he promised Diana that he would apologize to Ms. Wallace after third period. But since here he was, and so was she, advancing toward him, might as well get it over with.

"Ms. Wallace," Bruce took a step forward, blocking her way. African-American, slightly on the heavy side, Ms. Amanda Wallace always flaunted her origins, proudly wearing those long, colorful cloths that wrapped her up like a large burrito. She now eyed Bruce with pure hatred; like a witch doctor thinking up vengeance and God knows what voodoo magic she had up her sleeve. "I'm really sorry about yesterday. I don't deny that I deserve an F for the class. I didn't mean to call your class… that way, it just came out like that, and I'm sorry."

Ms. Wallace eyed him with suspicion, watched his eyes for any signs of deception. Finally, as if satisfied, she nodded curtly. "You do deserve an F. But considering that you usually do well on your projects as a whole—even though you rarely show up for class—I'll give you a second chance. Knit me a sweater and if I like it enough to consider it a Christmas gift for my niece, I'll give you at least a B for your midterm grade."

With that, she lumbered away. Bruce wanted to take back his words, his apology. He leaned against the wall, feeling frustrated for the unexpected turn of events. First, detention. Then the Martian and _The Justice Club_. And now, knit a sweater. Great. Could this day get any worse?

The second bell rang, and as students shuffled to their respective classes, as Bruce was about to go with the flow, a hand stopped him. He turned around to find a familiar redhead smiling at him, with a camera in her hand.

"Hi Bruce," Shayera Hol said.

"Shayera. Look, I have to get to class," Bruce said. Calculus was next, and though it was _easy peasy_ for him, Diana was in it. This was one of the two classes they shared, and Advanced Calculus was definitely more tolerable than Home Economics.

"I have something worth more than Calculus," Shayera said, handing him a photo. Bruce gave her a puzzled look. Wasn't it a bit too early to take pictures for the yearbook? But Bruce was never part of any official club so he wouldn't know. Besides, early planning was better than procrastination. He took the photo and looked at it, stunned by the image.

It was a snapshot of the spaceship with John Jones' green face peeking through the latch door. She took the moment when John was about to collapse and Diana was a blur, rushing to the Martian.

Bruce looked up, stared at Shayera. She returned his cool gaze. They were alone in the hallway. Perfect timing to make a deal.

"What's the catch?" Bruce asked.

"No catch. I want in though," Shayera said.

"I don't know what you're taking about." Bruce said.

"Your little fan club, what else? I saw you guys disappear into the spaceship and flew off to who knows where. If you don't comply, I'll have to hand this over to the principal. Or Lex Luthor. I'm sure Lex will have better use of it, what with Lex Corp at his disposal." Shayera snatched the photo from Bruce's hand.

Bruce thought about his options, and when he found none, he asked, "What is it do you really want?"

"A yearbook theme," Shayera said.

"What does blackmailing me into seeing the alien have anything to do with the fucking yearbook?" Bruce said through clenched teeth, his anger welling up.

"Inspiration," Shayera said. When Bruce's face read 'bullshit', she then added, "Curiosity."

"Well, for your information, we don't kiss and tell," Bruce said.

"And that's fine by me. I just need to see it and I'll be gone," Shayera said, pleading.

"Sure, why not? We'll let you see him while you take a few photos behind our backs, hand it over to the authorities and then get our fucking asses to the mental institution. Don't fuck with me," Bruce said. Whenever Bruce was on the edge of exploding, he channeled it through cusswords. Or he simply left the room. But in this case, there was no way of escaping. Only swearing would do for the meantime.

"Fine, what will it take for me to see it?" Shayera said, holding her hands up as a peace sign.

"Nothing. You give me your camera, films, written agreement that you won't speak this to anyone and then we go our separate ways." Bruce said.

"And you'll let me see it?" Shayera said.

"_Him_," Bruce corrected her. "And no, not even a glimpse."

"Look, don't mess with me. I have proof here," she waved the photo in his face.

"And I got the alien. Did it ever occur to you that blackmailing me only gives me more reason not to let you see the alien? Are you that fucking stupid?" Bruce said, his face a ripe shade of tomato.

"Look, Bruce, all I want is to see it."

"And all I want is everyone to stop fucking bothering me. Shayera, we made a pact that we wouldn't let any of this be known to the public. Pictures, articles, and spaceship—you name it. The alien will be kept under wraps during its stay on earth and after it leaves—if it does. So—"

"So I too will make a promise that I won't say anything to anyone." Shayera showed both hands, as if the absence of evidence was enough proof. "I saw it too, Bruce. I'm practically part of it now."

"And the yearbook theme?" Bruce asked, after a short pause of contemplation.

"Pretense. But inspiration is not out of line. I do plan on deciding a theme by the end of this month."

"And an alien will help you how…?"

"Inspiration manifests from all kinds of things. Whether it's winning the football championship or spotting an alien's spaceship, we glean something from that experience. That's what art is all about."

"It's a fucking yearbook. Not a painting," Bruce said. He stared at her again, looked at her face for any sign of deceit. Either she was telling the truth or she was a good liar, it seemed like Bruce had no other choice. She was right for one thing. She saw the spaceship and the alien. She was practically a part of it.

"Chemistry lab at 5. Don't make us wait," Bruce said, walking away. The third bell went off, signaling that second period was up and that Bruce had missed Calculus. He stood outside the classroom, waiting to break the news to Diana.

The day just kept getting fucking better and better.

~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~

To be continued…

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	4. No Joking Matter

Sorry for taking forever to update… I was busy studying for board exams. Anyways, thanks so much for your reviews. I love you guys!

By the way, thanks** yob3 **for the suggestion about the school's name. DC Academy is more fitting than Gotham High. I changed it accordingly.

Enjoy!

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Drenched in sewage water, he squeezed himself in the bathroom corner, stifling sobs from bouncing off the dirty tiles. He knew that if he unleashed the dam, his tiny shred of dignity would be swept out to the dirty floor, into the drainage system, into forgotten darkness. Biting his lip, he began gathering his soaked cards, which seemed ready to melt in his trembling hands. He smelled of used toilet water with a hint of urine and unwashed butt holes. The only way out was through the window but even that proved difficult; the window was an impossible height for him to reach. He'd need another person to heave him to freedom. But right now, Jack knew that anyone approaching him was social suicide. Not to mention that he reeked of human waste—a personified host for contracting dung-related diseases. He was the laughing stock, the sad clown, his head the perfect ball for dunking into the toilet bowl despite his strikingly angular face structure.

Jack had no other choice but to wash his hands and face with over-diluted soap. He stripped off his purple wedding suit, which was a gift from his late mother. His mother had always encouraged him to pursue his dreams no matter how much he got beaten up for it. Like his current situation, his mother was his own father's primary punching bag. An evil drunk, his father would drag his mother by the hair into their bedroom, uncaring if he made her bald in the process. Hours of screaming, of useless pleas of innocence, of listening to bone hitting bone, his mother would always come into his bedroom to read him a bedtime story. Through sunken eyes, hollowed cheeks, torn lips, and missing teeth, his mother limped through the threshold with a thin book in hand, smiling—though mostly grimacing—at him, ready to bid him goodnight. Every night seemed like her last, as if she were ready to collapse on him any second, which was why Jack figured that she tried to make every second count. For the both of them.

And their prediction did come true one day. Of all the days to be brave, choosing to intervene than to cower in the closet, Jack had grabbed an empty beer bottle and tried breaking the old man's skull. But instead of knocking him out, it only fueled his father's rage even more. His father then turned to him, with blood dripping down his father's nape, spewing ugly profanities at Jack, charging at him as if Jack were himself a red flag taunting the angry bull. His mother, ever protective, instantly gathered all her remaining strength and beat her husband's back, this time spewing her own series of profanities, pulling his hair to veer her husband's anger back at her. Like a raging animal, he did just that. He turned his attention back to her and resumed beating her senseless until she couldn't move anymore. All Jack could do was weep, making no move to call 911, watching his mother's last look on him, her eyes welling up in sadness that last night was their last time together. Along with her last breath, she managed a tiny wink, a sign for Jack to run away but not without remembering her motherly advice to keep on moving forward. At that moment, Jack rushed to his bedroom, stuffed his magic kit and his mother's storybook into a bag, and ran out the backdoor. On his way out, he stole his father's cell phone and called the police, directing them to his old home. Since that day, Jack admitted himself into foster care. The process was fast due to his obvious past of domestic abuse. He was only twelve at that time.

After two unsatisfied families, Jack had finally found the one. An old lady named Mrs. Hood decided to take him in. Prior to their foster arrangement, they had met in a park. Jack often found solace in the open field, practicing his magic tricks on a lonely bench. His only companions were pigeons that sought him for bread. His foster family at that time always wondered where the newly bought bread had gone, rightfully pinning the blame on Jack. But Jack didn't care. The birds looked at him with more ardor than his "new" family; they didn't judge him when his cards flew out his hands, making a "mess" on their linoleum floors. Or for this matter, their graveled path. So focused was Jack on improving his craft that he never noticed the old lady sitting a bench away, looking at him with curiosity and amusement. Finally, she walked to his bench and asked if he could amuse her with his tricks. Initially flummoxed by a stranger's request, Jack feared her. But she calmed him with a gummy smile, assuring him that she was not there to bite. He soon complied and she instantly praised him, even though he guessed most of her cards wrong. Mrs. Hood was his first audience. Since that day, they would feed the birds, talk about their respective pasts, and practice magic tricks. And then one day, Mrs. Hood—a widow—proposed to take him in. They have been inseparable ever since.

Jack loosened his purple tie, a birthday gift from Mrs. Hood, and fought back the tears. He was determined to not let Mrs. Hood see him like this. Jack gazed at his reflection, his angular face distraught and hawkish nose dripping with snot, his black hair in disarray from his perfectly gelled hair, his wide lips drawn in a frown. Jack closed his eyes to forget his misery, to keep on moving forward, to hold his head high. But today was the last straw. He had been putting up a strong front, trying very hard not to cry or throw flimsy punches to inflate their egos, simply turning a blind eye. But this was just too much. He couldn't go on anymore. His grip on the sink tightened, his anger showing through his eyes.

"No more," Jack muttered under his breath. His vision suddenly went red. He didn't even notice the door open and the figure standing next to him.

"Wear this until you get to the lockers. You wouldn't want them to stare. Or gloat," Bruce said, handing Jack a brown bag filled with a fresh set of clothes.

Jack was speechless, looking at Bruce warily. Jack wondered what kind of angle Bruce was playing.

Bruce wordlessly placed the clothes on the floor next to Jack's feet, walking to one of the urinals to relieve himself. Jack watched on as Bruce washed his hands, trying very hard to read Bruce's unreadable expression.

As Bruce shook his hands dry, he said, "If you don't change soon, the smell might just go through your skin."

"Why are you doing this?" Jack said, sounding almost angry. "How do I know you didn't put itch powder on these or make holes in the nether regions? Don't think I don't know what you did to Duncan and Bane."

Bruce sighed. "For one thing, those people deserved it. They had it coming when they ripped the pages of my textbook. You, on the other hand, need to start freshening up because seriously," Bruce pinched his nose. "You're making my eyes water."

Jack tentatively picked up the bag and poked a hand inside. "These are yours."

"Just a change of clothes after gym class, but you need them more than I do." Bruce began walking to the door. "I also put in a bar of soap in case you're paranoid about the soap in the showers."

"Oh, thanks. I'll wash them after I'm done," Jack said, smelling the shirt for bluff.

"No need. Keep them. I have many more at home." Bruce said, leaving Jack to ponder about the unlikely Samaritan. Before he knew it, Jack shed his usual wear—purple suit and tie and a green dress shirt—and replaced it with Bruce Wayne's white shirt and running pants. This was the nicest thing someone had done for him while expecting nothing in return, besides his mother and Mrs. Hood. As he stared at this simple attire, he suddenly felt renewed, as if he were turning over a new leaf. As if he could feel Bruce's aura seeping into him.

Carrying the bag of wet clothes, Jack walked out of the bathroom with his head held high, dodging the stares and snickers of fellow schoolmates. The bell was now ringing, alerting students that next period was up. He then noticed Bruce and Diana talking animatedly, almost worriedly, by the lockers. Suddenly, he felt a flash of jealousy for the black-haired beauty. She always got her way with everything: looks, riches, and Bruce Wayne.

He was plotting a way to get closer to—or for lack of a better word, befriend—Bruce when he noticed the pair being joined by Wally West, Hal Jordan and Arthur Curry. No one seemed to notice the odd combination except for Jack. He saw them whispering and then going their separate ways, but not until Jack noticed that they seemed to be plotting something. Something that smelled mischief but in no way devious. He suddenly felt the urge to know more about them, about Bruce, about their brief, secretive rendezvous.

As soon as the group dispersed, Jack realized that he was following Bruce into class, even though he should be in American History. He chose a seat in the back row, pushing his chair as far away as possible so as not to attract attention, especially when he neglected the need for a shower. Bruce was seated in the row second to the last, next to Clark Kent. The latter was listening intently to Bruce, showing shock and asking questions that were out of reach for Jack to hear. It was tempting to move closer, to the empty seat right behind Bruce, but the last thing he wanted was to attract Bruce's attention. So he stayed where he was, watching the clock impatiently.

When he feigned taking notes on Charles Dickens' personal life prior to his career, Jack felt pieces of paper being flung at him. He looked beside him and recognized the infamous Duncan, one of the jocks, sitting two seats from him, stifling laughs with his idiot friends. They were joking amongst themselves that Jack couldn't get enough of _it_ in the bathroom. Due to their verbal jabs, Bruce turned around to glare at them but he stopped when he caught sight of Jack. Bruce gave Jack a questioning look. The teacher also deviated from the lesson and gave Duncan a warning.

"But Sir, it's not our fault when there's an imposter in our midst," Duncan said, pointing in Jack's direction.

While the teacher referred to his list, Jack immediately ran out of the classroom, ignoring the guffaws behind him. Jack's first impulse was to hide in the nurse's office but that wouldn't stop Duncan and his stooges from attacking Jack once the nurse went for a bathroom break. After running aimlessly down the hall, after escaping the hall monitor's watch by a hair's breadth, a thought hit Jack. There was only one place where no one else dared enter.

The old chemistry lab. Bruce's solace during after-school hours.

Jack sprinted toward his new _safe house_. When the room wasn't occupied, Jack slipped in, choosing one of the roomier cabinets that wouldn't make his legs grow numb. It was a closet that housed lab coats and musty jackets, a perfect place for Jack to hide until the coast was clear, a secret place where he could work on his tricks undisturbed. He stayed there, checking the time first before confining himself. It was a quarter to three, giving him ample time to nap or practice his craft until the last bell rang through the halls. It was a long, tiring day, and all Jack wanted was some respite from the chaos that ruled his entire life. As he was closing his eyes, his mind drifted to Bruce Wayne. For some reason, he knew that an obsession began to take shape. Not in a malicious, perverse way but more of curiosity. Bruce Wayne has been known to keep to himself. That showed through his tiny circle of friends, and even around them, Jack noticed that Bruce still preferred not to engage in much activity or conversation. Jack had always thought of him as a nonchalant person, going through life without a care for the world. But after today's incident, the person who seemed incapable of emotion was the only one who showed any form of care. A first in his life, Jack felt like he could trust Bruce with his life. As he rested his head on hard wood, Jack felt safe. He soon drifted to sleep.

Suddenly, squeaky soles against polished floor woke Jack. What seemed like five minutes turned out to be two hours gone by. Jack peeked through the crack, catching sight of Bruce, Diana, Wally, Hal, Arthur, and Clark. He tried sitting up, almost cried out when a knot in his neck exploded in a shower of pain. He shifted as quietly as possible to one side, leaning his cheek on the inner wall, his one eye having full view of the unlikely group. He listened to their every word.

"We can't trust her. For all we know, she's pulling our leg. 'I want in,' my ass. Honestly, who in their right mind wouldn't leak the photo?" Diana said, pacing back and forth in frustration.

"The Justice Club, of course." Wally added. "Well, we do have the living, breathing proof back at the manor…"

"I think Diana meant it as a rhetorical question," Arthur said, pointing out the obvious.

"No duh, Sherlock," Hal said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "But Bruce has a point. Shunning her will only lead to her turning against us and then it's goodbye football scholarship—and John Jones."

"And our brains," Wally said with a sly grin.

"What's left of it," Bruce muttered under his breath, leaning against one of the tables. "Look, the reason why I called for this _meeting_ was so we could talk things through once she gets here. Let's just hear what she has to say and then we can all decide on what to do with her."

"You make it sound like I'm either sentenced to the electric chair or a pack of hungry lions. I honestly don't know which I'd prefer," Shayera Hol stood in the threshold, staring at them with a confident smile.

"For your sake, pray for the hungry lions. For someone as conniving as you, the electric chair will do you no harm. The current will pass right through you," Diana said, closing the gap between them.

Shayera merely chuckled. "You suggesting I'm a cold-blooded eel? Ouch. What did I ever do to deserve this?" She crossed the threshold, approaching Diana until they were four feet apart.

"Or that you somehow remind me of Darth Sidious," Diana said through clenched teeth. "How dare you blackmail us with such a measly photo? Do you actually think we'll succumb to something as sleazy as you?"

At the mention of Darth Sidious, Arthur and Wally exchanged awed looks. _The_ Diana Prince actually knew _Star Wars._ Diana. Prince. Knew. Darth. Sidious. By. Name. OMG.

"Whoa there, we've only met a minute ago and now we're reduced to name calling," Clark pushed Diana to the side, whispering to her, "You're making things worse."

"I am not name calling. I'm only describing her—" Diana started.

"Bite your tongue," Clark muttered under his breath.

Diana instantly clamped her mouth shut, glared at Clark, and stomped toward Bruce. Diana was practically shaking with rage, her face a bright shade of crimson. Bruce knew that words would only make things worse; so he did the only thing he could think of—no thanks to Clark—he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against him. He felt her stiffen but he eased her nerves by whispering, "We'll hear what she has to say and then you can resume barraging her. Deal?"

Diana could only nod, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her face temperature could have deep-fried a fish right then and there.

Ignoring the romantic spectacle, Clark turned to Shayera and gave her an apologetic look. "I don't think we've formally met. I'm—"

"Clark Kent," Shayera replied, took his outstretched hand. "I know you. I know all of you. Just because I'm not as popular as ex-cheerleader here," Shayera ignored Diana's death glare. "Doesn't mean I'm not aware of the _interesting _people at school. After all, I am the photographer for the yearbook."

"About that…" Clark started.

Shayera interrupted him. "I'm sure Bruce has already briefed you on my offer. But I want to add something to that. When I came to school this morning, I expected it to be flooded with reporters and government agents. I expected the worse. But when I saw you guys sneaking in some time to speak to one another, I figured you all swore to secrecy. And I respect that."

"So you're saying you didn't have any plans of selling the picture to the media?" Clark asked.

"I did at first. But who would believe me? A minute ago an alien crashed into earth. Into our school. And now's it's vanished. Sure, I have your picture but anyone would hardly identify your faces. For starters, Hal and Clark's backs are facing me, Diana's a blur, the spaceship could be just a prop and the alien a mascot. If there really was a spaceship, where did it go? Besides, it's not like one of you can actually fly the thing…" Shayera snorted at the last part, while the rest of the gang snickered at the inside joke.

Feeling proud of his achievement, Hal squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Actually…"

Clark quickly cut in after seeing Bruce's impatient look. "How do we know you'll keep the secret?"

"Because I'll give you all my negatives on that day. All the proof you need in exchange for the intel. And I'll be sworn to secrecy, just like you guys," Shayera said with conviction.

This time Bruce joined the conversation. He let go of Diana and walked toward Shayera. He stared at her for a moment before saying, "Once this information is leaked, you will be the first person I'll break. Not Hal, not Clark. You. Understand?"

Clark was aghast. "You actually tagged me as Suspect#3?"

"Understood," Shayera gave him her hand as a sign of mutual agreement. Bruce took it with unwavering calm. He then turned around and eyed Diana, who blew out a sigh and shuffled toward them.

"I'm sorry for calling you a cold-blooded eel," Diana said.

"Actually, it's Darth Sidious," Wally reminded her.

"Yeah, that. Sorry," Diana said, shaking her head in mild embarrassment. "It's just that… you could have just told us in a more _approachable_ manner than threaten us with the photo. It really sends off the wrong vibe."

"Well, I apologize for that. I figured that you wouldn't hear me out if I chose to leave a note in your locker. Like that's going to get your attention."

Diana mulled it over. "It would have. As long as you include the significance of the matter, we wouldn't ignore you."

Shayera feigned blowing a sigh of relief. "Jeez, and I went through such a trouble." She immediately stopped when Diana cocked an eyebrow at her. She quickly acquiesced, said, "And please understand that I'm not here to use you. I just… want to learn about _this creature_. Just like you guys."

"You do make a valid point," Diana said, smiling now.

Just then a loud thump caused the group to stop in their tracks, causing them to stare at each other with heart-stopping panic. A guttural _oomph_ followed after a moment's silence. It seemed to come from the closet. Wally immediately ran to the source of the noise, revealing Jack in a fetal position. Jack's sheepish smile gave their fears away. He heard everything.

"Hello," he said with cool frivolity, as if he had done nothing wrong. All this talk about aliens did sound absurd when he first heard it but as soon as he added two and two together, it all made sense. The big hole in the football field, the likes of Bruce Wayne and Hal Jordan joining forces… an alien crash would be the only cause for all the strangeness that has happened.

"This isn't what you think it is," Jack said out of impulse.

"Oh yeah? The part where you sneaked into the closet and got stuck or the part where you eavesdropped on us? Ever heard of the First Amendment?" Hal inquired.

"Look, I can explain…" Jack held his hands up in surrender. "I needed a place to hide… and this was the only place I could think of. Duncan wouldn't come anywhere near here."

Hal was about to intervene when Bruce stopped him. "If you were hiding from Duncan why where you in my class today?"

"Oh, well, I've uh… always had this interest in Charles Dickenson…" Jack said. Diana was about to correct the obvious lie when Jack apologized to them. "I didn't mean for any of this. I came in here, found this closet and as soon as I was inside I fell asleep. Scout's honor." He felt no need to disclose his feelings about seeing their newfound group together.

"Good for you," Shayera said, her nose twitching from the smell that pervaded the air, as if the closet was Pandora's box. "But I'm afraid it's getting late. My mom's picking me up from work."

The others concurred but not before turning to Bruce for a solution. Diana and Clark both had to be home for personal matters so it looked like Bruce was left to handle this predicament alone. "I'll handle this. You guys go on ahead. Besides, someone's overdue for a shower."

Jack lowered his head, feeling embarrassed.

Diana held Bruce's hand and apologized. "Of all the days Mother needs me."

"Rotten timing," Bruce said, squeezing her hand for comfort.

When everyone had left, Bruce gestured for Jack to follow him to the showers. Jack wordlessly complied, feeling ashamed for his deceit. They walked in silence down the hollowed hallway. Jack had so many questions but he was afraid that Bruce would only hate him more for listening in. He wanted to apologize again but he could tell that Bruce had a short fuse and that opening his mouth might only aggravate the situation.

"From what I know of you, you don't kiss and tell," Bruce said out of the blue.

"Mostly due to the fact that I don't have any friends," Jack tried humor but meeting Bruce's cold look made him rephrase, "No, of course not. There's no one whom I can confide in."

"Good. Let's leave it at that then," Bruce attempted to end the conversation, but Jack had other things in mind.

"Well, it does seem that you've formed a club out of this particular event," Jack started.

"What are you getting at?" Bruce said, turning to Jack.

"This isn't your ordinary exclusive club. And there's only way to membership: spotting the alien or hearing about it. I want in."

Bruce stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did it seem like everyone turned to him for admission? "Let me think about it." Saying yes was out of the question but declining Jack's proposal might only lead him to committing outrageous acts out of retaliation. Although no one would believe him even if he tried, the mere mention of the word _alien crash_ might spark debate or rumor mill, and any implication of an alien sighting was simply out of the question.

"But with Shayera…" Jack's face fell in slight disappointment.

"We thought about her too. I mean, we had a discussion before we made a final decision. The same applies for you. So be grateful." Bruce stopped at the doors that led to the men's room. "You need a ride home?"

"I take the bus, thanks," Jack felt his cheeks grow warm.

"Alright. Well, I could wait till you're done. My ride wouldn't be here until 6:30." Bruce said. It was only ten to six. "I'll be in the lab." He didn't feel very comfortable leaving Jack all alone at school, especially with him knowing their secret, so keeping an eye on Jack might help convince him that Jack played no harm to their cause.

"Okay, thanks." Jack watched as Bruce disappeared into a corner. He made a quick beeline to the showers, stripped himself, and started scrubbing off the stench. Drenched in soapsuds and silence, Jack didn't initially notice footsteps. But a sudden bang in the locker area prompted him to grab a towel. He turned off the water after hearing hoarse whispers echo around him. He tentatively stepped out of the stall, wrapping the towel around him tighter, when large hands grabbed him from behind. He struggled but to no avail. The guy behind him was massive and strong.

"No use in fighting us, Jackie," Duncan emerged from the shadows, flanked by two other jocks. They all held buckets, ready to splash Jack with human excrement no doubt.

"Let me go, you jerks!" Jack said, trying very hard to wring free.

"Awww… is Ms. Jackie fed up with us _jerks_? Too bad," Duncan said. He approached Jack, his face mere inches from their victim. "I have something that suits you."

Jack looked in the bucket and saw that it was a colorless liquid. "What are you going to do with that?"

"Figured you'd need a makeover. Something that goes with that ugly coat of yours," Duncan said, making a sign for his friend to release Jack. As soon as his friend did so, he immediately dumped bleach on Jack. "You stink!" The other two guys followed, splashing some into his eyes and mouth.

Jack cried out in pain, slipped as he attempted escape and then hit his head against the wall, causing blood to flow and mingle with the bleach on the floor. Duncan and his stooges ran at the sight of blood, unwilling to claim responsibility. Before falling into unconsciousness, Jack crawled to the bench for support, reaching out for nothing in particular. He caught a glimpse of the clothes Bruce Wayne had loaned him and he suddenly grew angry. Finally, something in him snapped. Blinded with bleach and rage, his nasal cavity filled with the atrocious cleansing agent, Jack blamed it on Bruce. If it hadn't been for Bruce, he wouldn't be in this mess. He wouldn't be humiliated in the class where he didn't belong to in the first place, he wouldn't be caught with a sore neck in the closet, he wouldn't be ambushed in the locker room.

This was all Bruce's fault. All Bruce's fault. If only he left him alone, just like everyone else. Falling into the brink of hatred, into the depths of unconsciousness, the last thing Jack heard was squeaky footsteps, a familiar voice calling his name, a phone dialing 911.

Jack was dead.

The next time he awoke, a new name would spell fear in the hearts of every schoolmate at DC Academy.

Someone was now applying CPR with a help of a machine. Jerking him back to life, the Joker inhaled his first breath.

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To be continued…

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	5. Red Cross

Disclaimer: I do not own Justice League.

Thank you for your wonderful reviews. I'm sorry for not updating sooner, as I had tests after tests after freakin' tests. So now that I'm able to update, be happy to know that my fingers are like Speedy Gonzales on the keyboard: quick and painless (hopefully for me).

With that said, enjoy!

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Like walking into a tunnel saturated with white noise, angry beeps, and the metallic smell of blood, Bruce sat in the waiting room, flipping through the magazine without reading the text or browsing the pictures. He just flipped and flipped, his fingertips brushing against the smooth, glossy pages. With each flutter of the page, Bruce started to think of his childhood days. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to the hospital.

As a boy, his father would hijack Bruce to his hospital. It was a father and son outing. Bruce would skip school once a year, without his mother's knowledge, and his father was behind the wheel, driving past the school and into the hospital's parking lot. They nearly got caught once when Thomas left his lunch at home. Martha came waltzing through the automatic doors, and Bruce—alert as ever—ducked beneath the nurse's desk, waited for his mother to walk to his father's office. To this day, Bruce wondered if his mother ever registered that dark flash of hair disappear into the counter. Either she saw him and feigned nonchalance or Bruce was simply too fast for his mother's eye.

Bruce lost his chance of finding that out.

His father was both owner and director of the hospital. But despite his pinnacled status, Thomas Wayne usually stayed cooped up in the underground lab, conducting his research while his medical team rushed along the white halls to save the sick and console the grieving family. Like father, like son. But quite unlike Bruce, Thomas always gave room for his patients, whether grave or not. He always found a way to pause his research, took his hidden elevator to the director's office, and read the patients' files en route to their respective rooms. He was an indefatigable workaholic, engulfed by his compassion for others.

Bruce had always admired that about his father. Despite his exceedingly busy schedule, however, Thomas never neglected Bruce and his wife. That's why Thomas established an annual date just for Bruce. It was a secret between father and son.

Since time immemorial, Bruce spent some of his free time in the hospital, standing by the nurse's station, or reading a book in his father's lab. He tried his best not to disrupt the chaotic mechanisms of the hospital. He didn't want an emergency gurney to run over him, and his father warned him to steer clear of the hallway, although it was permissible for Bruce to comfort some patients who were recovering from surgery or were waiting for their loved ones' visit. But for those whose relatives didn't give a damn, Bruce gave them the most attention. All they wanted was a person to whom they could talk. Since then, Bruce was known as the youngest unlicensed therapist of Wayne Medical.

The last time he stepped through those ominous sliding doors was the day of the accident. Dripping with blood, he was being pulled in by the paramedics. He could never forget the look on his parents' lifeless faces. As his father's team was hard at work, everything else was a blur for Bruce. When the nurses tried their best to keep him glued to the bed, all he did was call and cry for his parents. He demanded the truth. He made a fuss when they resorted to the morphine. As soon as Bruce saw the needle, he dodged panicked arms, jumped off the bed and ran down the hallway, only to be lost in the white maze. The shock from the accident muffled his sense of direction. Closing his eyes and leaving his legs on cruise control, Bruce found himself in his father's lab, his father's secret HQ, and crawled into the small space under the desk. Wrapping himself in his father's lab coat, Bruce waited for his father and mother to reappear in the elevator. He waited and waited until he fell into a dreamless sleep—the first out of many to come.

"Bruce?"

Someone was shaking him back to life.

Bruce looked up and thought he woke up from a nightmare. Diana's face was haloed by bright light, her clear blue eyes piercing his soul. It was comforting yet rather emasculating.

"Are you alright?" Diana asked once again, slowly sitting herself down next to Bruce.

Bruce rubbed his eyes in confusion. The blast from the past momentarily caught him off guard. After retracing his steps in the past hour, he soon remembered the reason for what brought him to his father's hospital.

"Yeah, I just dozed off a bit. How'd you know I was here?" He asked.

"Alfred called me," Diana said, squeezing Bruce's hand. She didn't have to say anything to know that hospitals maimed Bruce's ability to reach out to others for help. As a defense mechanism, Bruce built a sturdier wall around him, making it impossible for others to console him without making him flinch or walk away. But Diana's touch somehow soothed the tension within Bruce. They stayed like that for awhile, Diana's hand rubbing against Bruce's, while Bruce stared at nothing but white walls, white coats, white floors…

"Mr. Wayne?" One of the doctors approached Bruce and Diana. He was a close friend of the family.

"How is he?" Diana asked, letting go of Bruce's hand. Bruce only stared, his face blank and hard.

Doctor Han hesitated for a moment. "We may have to admit Jack to the psychiatric ward."

"Psychiatric ward? What for?" Diana involuntarily raised her voice. "Jack's the victim. The ones who need their heads fixed are those assholes." Diana shook her head to express her frustration. "Kicking them off the team is not enough. They need to be whipped, battered, splashed with bleach, see what it feels like to be the receiving end of their herculean stupidity. This is stupid." Diana crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the doctor.

Doctor Han immediately took a step back. He looked anxiously at Bruce, who was staring at the floor, thinking.

"But how's his physical?" Bruce asked.

Doctor Han shifted to his other foot. Apparently something unnerved him about this case. "It seems like the bleach really _bleached_ his skin. His skin is completely whitewashed. Our medical team has made different conjectures, one of which is that his skin reacted to the bleach, causing a chemical shift underneath his epidermis. This is a very _rare_ reaction. Our medical staff is still running tests."

Bruce interrupted him. "Mind if I take a look?" Meaning he wanted in.

Doctor Han thought for a minute, but his face gave away no hint of surprise. He knew that Bruce didn't stray away from the family tree, especially in the science branch. He nodded his head, motioned for Bruce to follow. Diana was at Bruce's heels when Doctor Han stopped and told them that no one other than Bruce could see the patient.

Bruce responded, "She'll just see how it is and leave. She won't stay long."

Doctor Han relented. Bruce was technically his boss—being the heir and shareholder and all.

They walked down the busy hall, took the elevator down, strolled into a quieter, more deserted corridor—giving Diana the chills—and arrived at the room that had no neighboring patients. This section of the hospital was meant for the oddest cases, made to deter disruptions to other patients. It also avoided any remote possibility for the public eye to stumble upon what Bruce and Diana were about to witness.

Suddenly two nurses wearing face masks emerged out of the room, bowing slightly in Bruce's direction. Diana noticed a coquettish glint in their eyes. She instantly grabbed Bruce's arm and glared at them, scaring them away.

"Diana," Bruce handed her a mask.

Diana wrapped the lower part of her face and followed Bruce into the room. The lights were turned on low and the blinds filtered most of the sunlight. On the bed Jack's eyes were swathed in bandages but his bleached skin beneath the sheets and gown was as plain as day. Diana now understood why they didn't bother to turn on the overhead lights; his skin could _blind_ the blind.

Taking a closer look, Diana noticed his lips and hair took on the same pallor as his complexion. It looked like Death descended on him but his soft breathing betrayed the worst. Or could his current state be worse than death itself?

"Is there… a cure?" Diana asked.

"We tried different solutions to bring back some color but his skin would either rupture in the area we touched or would cause a rash," Doctor Han indicated the dark splotches on his arms. "We've studied every inch of him and we still haven't figured out how this reaction came about. We've called government specialists to take a look…"

"This isn't an epidemic," Bruce said after much deep thought. "We don't need the Feds here." Bruce now faced Doctor Han. "We'll figure this out ourselves."

"It's only protocol that we call them when any unusual case comes up. Besides, we've already notified them…"

Through clenched teeth and foreboding eyes, Bruce said, "The last thing I want is the government and media to know about this. Once they cross this threshold, they are going to treat the patient as a lab rat. As a doctor you should know that your obligation is to the patient, not the damn government."

"With all due respect, Bruce—er, Sir—the government is required to sign a non-disclosure statement. We'll make sure they won't leak any information. And the media is prohibited to know about this until we are more certain of what steps to take."

"Eunsok," Bruce started. "There is no way I am letting those leeches walk around this hospital, thinking they own the place. How dare you go ahead with this decision without consulting me first?" Bruce was clearly livid.

"I didn't have a choice. We have no clue what this is and it's only protocol that we call—"

"Screw the protocol. Call and tell them we no longer need their services, problem solved. Do whatever it takes to keep them from coming." Bruce would take no compromise whatsoever. Doctor Han hesitated for a moment before nodding his head.

Bruce crossed his hands over his chest—a gesture that showed he was thinking very hard, his clockwork of a brain on overdrive—and stared down at Jack. He wasn't sure if Jack was really sleeping or feigning sleep and listening to their conversation, but he felt a fire of obligation consume him. Guilt gnawed at him. It was his fault Jack was in this condition. If only he didn't leave him alone…

Soft fingers touched his shoulder. Doctor Han was gone by now, and it was him and Diana and the sleeping patient in the room.

"It wasn't your fault." Diana reassured him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Bruce didn't respond but he let her warmth soak into him, calming him. The last time he felt this way was sitting next to his mother in the movie theatre, squeezing her fingers tightly when the giant bat dove onto the silver screen, devouring the helpless cow in two swallows.

After a moment's silence, Bruce asked, "How's E.T.?"

"E.T. is good. Hal and Wally are keeping them company, and Clark's on his way."

Bruce tensed up. "There's no need. He has more important things, like family…"

"Bruce, don't say that. Clark thinks of you as family, and so do the Kents. Even if you call him now, I bet you he's flying through the doors right this min—"

"What? You haven't heard of Clark Kent? Best friend? Confidant? Future best man?" Clark's voice was loud, and he was clearly struggling with someone outside.

"I'll calm them down." Diana squeezed Bruce's arm one more time before walking out the door.

Left alone with Jack, Bruce walked to Jack's bedside for a closer look. Bruce was usually calm about things. He was calm when Clark had nasty sunburns on his face that it rendered his friend unrecognizable. He was calm when Diana caught the chicken pox and she was quarantined for almost two weeks. He was calm when the Martian crashed onto the football field. But this one takes the cake of the most bizarre circumstances. For the first time in his life, Bruce was clueless. The only solution for now was to take a sample of his epidermis.

From the medicine cabinet Bruce fished out morphine, Petri dish, and scalpel and returned to Jack's side, injecting anesthetic into Jack's IV. As he waited for Jack's bloodstream to grow numb, Bruce inspected Jack's chalk-like skin. His finger brushed against the hairless surface, sending chills throughout his body. Instead of feeling like _skin_, it felt more rubbery and elastic, colder. Bruce felt that if he pulled harder, he could make a pretzel out of Jack's arm.

Bruce looked at the bandages where Jack's eyes were hiding and, with the scalpel in hand; he stooped lower to make an incision when a grunt prompted Bruce to look up. Bruce nearly cursed out loud when Jack's green eyes stared at him, his bandages somehow loosened. Bruce could have sworn he didn't notice Jack move.

"How did you—" Bruce began. What was more eerie was that Jack's whole face was paper-white and the only color was the eyes. Even his lips and hair were as colorless as his skin. Bruce found himself speechless.

"I don't want you touching me," Jack growled, showing angry teeth, almost snarling like a big dog.

"I just need a sample, Jack," Bruce tried to explain.

"Don't even dare," Jack warned, pulling his arm away. He even shifted his weight as far as possible from Bruce. "You of all people have no right to touch me."

"Jack, you misunderstand. I'm here to help—"

"I'll be damned to accept any more of your shitload advice. The last time I took it I was drenched in bleach and look at me now, a _fuckin__'_…freak!" Jack sat up angrily, the IV bag swaying with and against the sudden movement.

"Jack," Bruce tried to push him back, to calm down. But as Bruce inched closer, Jack's nose flared in anger. Bruce stepped back.

"Just leave. I don't need anymore of your advice, your apologies, your fuckin' medicine…" Jack pulled at his IV. Tears began to well up but Jack was fighting it. "I don't need you or anyone. Just… leave me the hell alone!"

Jack's yells drew attention from outside. Bruce heard the door swing open, revealing Clark and Diana looking at Jack with shocked faces and nurses scrambling into the room with larger doses of morphine.

When Jack finally calmed down, Clark said, "Pizza?"

"Isn't it way past dinner time?" Diana asked, glancing at her tiny watch. She already had a bite before rushing to the hospital.

"Midnight snack, what else?" Clark said, sounding as if stating the obvious. "Besides, the guys are hungry. They've been waiting since Diana texted me."

"Don't tell me…" Bruce said, getting the feeling that he wouldn't have the house to himself tonight, excluding the Martian.

"We decided to have a meeting, what with the circumstances that have unfolded so unexpectedly. And Shayera's waiting too."

"She's in my house?" Bruce's voice went up a notch higher. Diana nearly snickered.

Clark was confused. "Didn't we reveal our secret to her just a few hours ago?"

"Out of necessity. Jeez, Clark, you should have told me that the busybody's in my house. _My _house." Bruce stomped down the hall, already forgetting Jack's unreasonable resolve to nurse a grudge against Bruce. Before stepping into the elevator, Bruce stopped one of the top doctors, giving his approval to his team to go ahead with the best treatment they could come up with. He also reminded her that no media was to know about this case. Public frenzy was the last thing Jack needed right now, and Bruce didn't give a damn whether Jack was angry with him or not, as long as Jack's privacy could be respected.

When they were alone in the elevator, going up to the main floor, Clark asked, "What's the big deal about Shayera? Didn't you guys shake hands or something before we all went our separate ways?"

"Sure, but she's the last person I want in my house right now. We still don't know who she is, what she's capable of," Bruce said.

"Bruce, she's a senior, photographer for the yearbook committee, a mix of German and Irish descent, allergic to crawfish and asparagus, and cat lover. She briefly dated John Stewart from the basketball team. Rumor has it she's now dating Carter Hall."

"Carter? From the wrestling team?" Diana asked, slightly shocked by the news. She was always in the first loop. "I heard she's back with John."

"Well, you heard wrong, Princess," Clark teased. "Does it bother you?" He asked when Diana was quiet.

Diana rolled her eyes. "John's a dear friend is all." She was the first to hop in the car, ignoring Clark almost entirely. She didn't like Clark's implication, more so because Carter had previously dated one of her good friends a year ago and unceremoniously dumped her for another school's cheerleader. Which struck Diana as very odd and highly unlikely because Shayera was hardly Carter's type.

"_Men_," Diana muttered under her breath.

Bruce, who sat next to her, glanced at her questioningly. He watched her angry profile and was tempted to stroke her hand but he was afraid that she'd smack him out of spite. Whenever Diana was in a mood, Bruce felt it necessary to give her space and time to mull things over.

During the drive home, the car was quiet. Alfred shot a look at Bruce on the rearview mirror, his wrinkled forehead demanding answers. Bruce merely shrugged, made a light gesture that Diana was pissed with Clark.

When they finally arrived at Wayne Manor, Bruce could feel his heartbeat beating against his ribs, the pulsating rhythm faster and stronger. He nearly pushed Clark aside so he could open the door and rush out but he bit his tongue to contain himself. He was afraid that he would agitate Diana even more.

As soon as Alfred parked the car in front of the main doors, Bruce didn't wait for Clark to get out. He reached out and slid over Clark, running to his home as if his life depended on it. He barreled through the doors, and stopped abruptly when he saw the rest of the gang hovering in the living room, obviously doing _something_ with the Martian. They looked like they were at a slumber party, revamping the ugly, new girl with clay masks, nail polish, and makeup before bed.

"What is going on here?" Bruce asked. Clark, Diana, and Alfred had showed up behind Bruce by now.

Hal, Wally, Arthur, and Shayera all looked up, guilt etched in their sheepish smiles. Clark bawled out in laughter when he saw the poor Martian's mismatched transformation: he wore the Burger King's mask, Alfred's butler gloves to cover his green hands, rain boots to conceal his elongated feet, and a cape just to emphasize his iconic strangeness on Planet Earth.

"Not cool, guys," Diana asked, suppressing a smile when she glanced at Bruce, whose frown said it all.

"This isn't freakin' Halloween," Bruce was about to remove the mask when Wally stopped him.

"Whoa there, Tiger. We were just having a bit of fun. Martian King here better thank his lucky stars that we forbade colored nails. Why, Shayera _so_ happened to have her nail polish kit with her."

"She did, huh," Bruce said, squinting his eyes with suspicion. "Don't tell me she's Mary Poppins disguised as a high school student."

"What's up with you being all menopausal?" Hal said, standing up.

Bruce clenched his fists, ready to throw the first blow if pushed further. He didn't know why he was so mad; he merely felt like hitting someone, anyone. Was it guilt? Shame of himself? Memories of losing his father and mother while at the hospital?

The doorbell resounded throughout the mansion, prompting all heads to look up, curious and anxious.

"Who could it be at this hour?" Alfred asked as he made his way to the foyer. He stopped and looked through the peephole.

"Who is it?" Bruce asked.

"Judging by the look of his polished crown, Lex Luthor is paying you a night visit, Sir."

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	6. Martian Mystery

Disclaimer: I don't own Young Justice.

Acknowledgements: Thanks so much for your reviews! I apologize for the slight delay, because I was sick with the flu and I just wrote another AU fiction on Young Justice. It's called 'The Little Martian'. Anyways, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter.

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"Sir, should I answer the door?" Alfred asked, waiting for Bruce's answer. He was standing at the foyer.

Bruce turned around. "What are you guys looking at? Hide him!"

"Where?" Wally asked.

"Kitchen. The den. Anywhere but here." Bruce picked up the mess they made, and Diana helped. Bruce nearly threw an unscrewed nail polish into a makeup kit but Diana stopped him just on time.

"I'll handle this. Go to the door. I'll make sure the others won't make a peep," Diana said, grabbing all the things with one swoop and headed in the kitchen's direction.

Clark followed Bruce close behind. They stood behind Alfred, who opened the door with an elegant flourish, like a swan. Clark had always believed that if Alfred weren't a butler, he would excel as a ballet dancer.

"Ah, Mr. Luthor. How may I be of service?" Alfred asked, opening the door wide enough so Lex wouldn't see Bruce and Clark.

"Is Bruce in?" Lex asked, tilting his head to look past the old man.

"Yeah, I'm here. What's going on?" Bruce said, stepping forward to reveal himself.

Lex walked in, ignoring Clark's presence. Clearing his throat, he started, "I got a call from the school. It concerns a student named Jack Owens. I hear he is currently in your hospital's care."

Bruce nodded, while Clark glared at Lex. "My medical staff is doing everything they can for Jack. My only concern is the people responsible for his injuries. They may have inflicted permanent damage on Jack."

Lex was deep in thought. "What do you mean by 'permanent'?"

"Meaning psychological damage. Maybe physical. Jeez, the damn bastards doused him in bleach! Do you realize what kind of effect that has on a kid?" Clark exclaimed, gritting his teeth in frustration.

"Mr. Kent, I only want to know the extent of his injuries."

"And I'll be damned if you have a vein of compassion for your student body. More so for the bullied!" Clark said, nearly lunging at the student body president. Bruce quickly held him back.

Lex lightly smiled. "I only want to know the truth. Nothing more or less. Of course, I will express my condolences to Mr. Owens. I'll pay him a visit first thing in the morning."

"You're doing this for show. Just because you're the student body president and principal's son, you think you can shut him up. I'm on to you, Luthor. You're planning to make this 'little accident' go away." Clark glared at Lex. "Think twice if I'm letting this go. You're just another one of your father's cronies."

Clark hoped that the sting of his words would affect Lex. He hoped that Lex would burst like a hot potato, or that he would use his polished hands to hit Clark. A single furrow would be good enough.

To Clark's dismay, Lex only scoffed at him. "You and your theories, Kent. You'll make a fine journalist one day. Anyways," he glanced at his watch. "It's getting late. Don't want to be late for the hospital visit tomorrow. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Luthor was crossing the threshold when a crash in the kitchen made time stop. All four of them glanced in the direction of the noise.

"You have other guests, Wayne?" Luthor asked, his interest peaking.

"Just Diana. She's cooking something," Bruce said, motioning for Luthor to leave.

"I don't smell anything," Luthor said, uncooperative and unmoving.

"Well, duh. It's Diana. Smelling something in the kitchen is far better than no smell at all. Trust me, burnt chicken beats a vegan sandwich any day. You have no idea what that woman comes up with in there. Ask Alfred. Poor man was almost sent to the emergency," Clark reasoned.

Luthor turned to Alfred, who quickly confirmed his harrowing experience. "It was ghastly, Sir. She didn't need a frying pan to destroy my kitchen."

Lex smirked. "A girl can't have everything. Well then, I'll see you at school tomorrow."

"Bye!" Clark said, sounding very eager for the first time since Lex's visit.

As soon as the door closed, all three men burst into the kitchen.

The Martian was hovering in the air, poised in a yogic position—also known as Asana—and he was munching on cheese balls. He had removed his mask and the contents of the pantry were clearly pillaged.

Trying to keep his composure in check, Alfred asked, "What happened?"

"His fault," Hal pointed at Wally, whose mouth was rimmed with powdered cheese.

Stricken with guilt, Wally sheepishly turned to Diana for support, but she urged him to tell the truth. For a minute Wally's face was like a five year-old, nervous and ashamed for a crime so petty and yet it felt like you could be put to jail.

"I was finishing the last can when one cheese ball slipped from my hand and John Jones took it and he was hooked like someone smoking his first joint. I swear I didn't do anything." Wally held up his hands as if to justify his action. "He grabbed the can from me, finished it, wanted more, and so that's how he ran into the pantry and found another one. He was at it like a hungry rhino. He was look _whoosh_ and _bam_. There was no stopping him, I swear."

"But those things are stale. I was meaning to throw them away…" Alfred started.

"Really? I think they're still pretty good. They have a longer shelf than most," Wally said.

"Yeah, rub that all over your face you'll look ten years younger," Hal said, handing Wally his handkerchief.

Wally ignored his friend, cleaning his face. He looked up at John Jones, who was mesmerized by the cheese balls, gripping the can with dear life.

"We have to wean him off it," Arthur suggested. "Who knows what it can do to his system."

"I highly doubt he's lactose and tolerant," Hal said, laughing. "Look at him. He's eating them like chocolate. Like he's a depressed chick or something."

"Gee Hal, sympathetic much?" Shayera said, clearly mocking the football star.

Hal narrowed his eyes at the redhead. "What's your implication?"

"You date women like they're chocolate. You have no clue what us _women_ go through after getting dumped by a guy," Shayera said.

"Sure I do. They binge on ice cream and cake, sob to their _girlfriends_ that the guy is a big jerk, skip schools to avoid the guy. They constantly whine and blame the guy like he's the antichrist."

Shayera scoffed at him. "Shows you how _less_ you know. Romantic comedies don't have half of what you think a girl feels, you cold-hearted fool."

"At least I express how I feel. I date a girl 'cuz I like her."

"Oh, but after you screw her, it's the next fresh face and big boobs? Next in line, please! Keep it coming! Yeah, such a gentleman," Shayera said, shaking her head.

Frustrated, Hal was not one to back down. He pointed a finger at Shayera. Wally had to pull Hal from poking her eye out.

"At least I don't two-time guys just 'cuz both of them have qualities I wish one guy has. Ooh, one is nice and sweet, while the other one is oozing with sexy pheromones. Yeah, real mature, Hol." Hal began backing away, grabbing his car keys. "I'm out. See you guys later."

Shayera's cheeks were a deep shade of red, almost purple. She refused to look at Wally, who patted her shoulder, as if apologizing for Hal. She quickly shrugged his hands off, brushed a tear away.

"I have to go. Still have French homework." Shayera grabbed her jacket.

"I'll drive you. Your place is on the way to my house," Wally offered, always chivalrous.

Shayera lightly smiled at him. "You don't have to save me, Wally. I can fend for myself." She was out the door before Wally could stop her.

Arthur blew out a sigh, as if he was holding his breath the whole time, finally releasing the tension that built up inside and around him. He was not one who liked confrontation. He would rather work his way around fights, choosing to calm people down or simply avoid them. His throat was parched all of a sudden.

"Mind if I have a glass from the tap?" Arthur broke the silence.

Plucked from his reverie, Alfred looked up and nodded, inwardly berating himself for being tangled in the web of teenage drama. He quickly opened one of the cabinets and took out glasses, his movements fidgety.

"It's alright, mate. It's just me. I think the rest of us will be leaving soon." Arthur grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the sink.

Alfred appreciated the young man's considerate gesture. He thanked Arthur.

When he gulped down the last drop, Arthur called Wally's attention. "Hey, mate. Ready to scoot? We still have that History quiz tomorrow."

"Yeah, of course." Wally said, clearing his throat. "Sorry to leave like this, Bruce."

Bruce shook his head, tried to smile but it looked more like a grimace. "Duty calls."

As soon as the two of them left, Clark sat down, blew out a sigh. "Wow. Did not see that happening at all."

"Tell me about it," Diana said. She looked at Bruce, who was watching John Jones. "What now?"

"We got to bring him down," Bruce said, waving to catch the alien's attention.

Purple eyes instantly met striking blue eyes, his gloved hand waving at Bruce. Bruce waved back.

"John, come on down. Before the neighbors see you," Bruce said, beckoning the Martian.

"What neighbor? You live miles away from civilization," Clark said.

Bruce hissed at him. "Work with me here."

John Jones thankfully didn't hear Clark. He looked from left to right, watching the windows, squinting his eyes. He stared at Bruce, and the voice that escaped his shapeless lips was deep and low, surprising everyone. It was like the kitchen was installed with speakers that boomed around them, shaking their ribcages, hammering their eardrums.

"There are no neighbors around here," John Jones said, his face emotionless. They couldn't tell if he felt betrayed or if he was stating a fact.

Diana said, awed. "You can talk."

John Jones nodded. "I learned many of Earth's languages. French, Spanish, English, Mandarin, Greek, Portuguese, Czech, Korean, Japanese, and many others. It was mandatory on Mars."

"Wow," Clark said. "I can't form a single sentence of French."

"Phrases?" Diana asked.

"Bien sûr," Clark said, smiling. _Of course._

John Jones began his descent. Clark leaned against the table until it hurt his spine, while Diana took a small step back. Bruce and Alfred, however, stayed rooted to where they stood, holding their breathes.

"I am not here to hurt you," John said, holding up his hand that was filmed with cheese dust.

"Good to know," Clark said, letting out a sigh. He slowly inched forward, still keeping his distance. "What are you doing on Earth, if I may ask?" His inner journalist began to dominate, but he tried to sound polite and unobtrusive as much as possible.

"I was running away because my home planet was being attacked," John said. "I was with my family but our spaceship was hit and then my father—" John had a short intake of breath, as if barring his emotions from overflowing. He quickly kept his composure and continued, "My father pushed me into an escape pod. My mother and sister were in the other one, and my father was supposed to be with me. But the ship was hit and they were coming after us. My father had to distract them, so before I could say no, he activated my escape pod and he was left steering the ship to keep the enemy away."

John Jones lowered his head as if he was ashamed of himself, of his lack of action, of his cowardice perhaps. Diana shook her head and walked up to him, hugging him.

"Don't blame yourself. Your father loved you very much, and you would have done the same thing," Diana said, cupping his face.

Tears that glistened like glitter lined his cheeks. "Please help me. I need to look for them."

Diana nodded. "Of course. We'll help you find your family."

"Diana—" Bruce started. He was worried that Diana would act before she gave much consideration to her words and promises. She was very affectionate and caring, and her compassion usually got the better of her.

Diana interrupted him. "Who attacked you?"

"Saturnites? Neptunes? Moon people maybe?" Clark said jokingly.

"Your people call them NASA."

"Holy shit," Clark said, dumbstruck.

Diana took a step back. "What do you mean?"

The Martian looked at each one of them, his face stern, his eyes hard. "Your officials have been hiding many things from you."

"The government, you mean," Diana said.

"Call them whatever you want, but I am surprised that Earth's commoners have no clue of what your officials know about the universe."

"We call them conspiracy theories," Clark said. He suddenly remembered one of Vic's articles, his crazed and lengthy obsession in UFO sightings and little green men. He wondered if Vic had been hiding his own alien in his room. Clark wouldn't be surprised if he did.

"So what you're saying is that our government is attacking your planet?" Bruce asked, trying to get a grasp of the situation.

John was quiet for a minute. "They are after something. My father did not clarify what it was but he said your people wanted something from us… very badly. I remember hearing that they were very forceful against my father and the council members."

"Area 51 must be having a field day," Clark said.

"So you don't know what it is they want?" Bruce asked.

John Jones shook his head.

"Maybe it's _you_," Bruce said. "For experiments. And if word gets out that Mars is in fact inhabited, Earth is either going to demand extensive intel or go on panic mode. They'll either retaliate or form a treaty with your people. For insurance."

"But what has that have anything to do with Earth's _attack_ on Mars?" Diana asked. "Could they be waging war?"

"I don't think Earth, especially the U.S. government, has the capacity to overcome the Martian army," Bruce speculated. "But I'm more than certain they'll want to establish a military base in Mars now."

"So why attack one of the elders?" Clark asked.

Bruce only shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we'll have to figure it out."

At that moment, Diana kissed Bruce on the lips. It was quick but a little tongue action made Bruce blush a little.

"I knew you'd help," Diana whispered, her breath tickling his ear. She left the men gawking at her retreating figure. "Goodnight, all."

"She's got you wrapped around her finger," Clark said when all was quiet.

"With a big red ribbon," Alfred added in.

"I'm no freakin' Christmas present," Bruce said, walking out the kitchen door.

"You humans have such cryptic language and complex interactions," John mused. "Fascinating."

"It's just body language. We'll teach you," Clark said, slinging an arm over the alien's shoulders. "Now, how do you feel about wearing an eagle costume under plain daylight, among screaming cheerleaders and steroidal football players?"

"As long as I do not draw too much attention," John said.

"Good. You're gonna fit right in," Clark said, patting the alien's back.

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To be continued…

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	7. The Question

Disclaimer: I don't own Young Justice.

Author's note: Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews and suggestions. If it weren't for you, I'd be forever swimming in my drool, deranged and unimaginative, sick with the infamous writer's block. Sometimes I update the next chapters on twitter. You can follow me kristlQ. Make sure you let me know that you're from fanfiction, otherwise, I'll ignore you completely. I would also like to apologize for some spelling errors in the previous chapter. I must have overlooked that.

Anyways, enjoy the chapter!

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He stopped at an ice cream parlor and ordered the usual: orange sorbet. He loved it not because it was the long lost thirty-second flavor that most people overlooked, but simply because it was his favorite. Orange was an obscure, quirky color. It was neither aggressive nor subtle. It could hurt the eyes and at the same time create a smile. While the fruit was denoted solely by its color, Vic was glad that it earned meaningful respect among the growing circle of health buffs. The citrus fruit was refreshing and packed with Vitamin C—perhaps not as potent as strawberries—but the blend of cold ice and sweet flavor was orgasmic.

Vic walked down the street, slipping spoonfuls of sorbet into his mouth, enjoying every bite. He passed an intersection, strolled along a deserted street, and finally reached the park. There was a lamppost that strobed where he stood, as if he were in a horror movie, waiting anxiously for something to materialize from the darkness. Vic was usually calm, however, so even if a flash of sharp teeth and red eyes appeared in front of him, it would be nothing more than a flicker of his schizophrenic imagination.

He continued his slow, routine journey, stopping once in awhile to bask in the quietness, the serenity of makeshift nature around him, the darkness that wanted to leak inside him. He preferred to be alone. People called him an oddball, a freak, a fluke in the normal flow of the world. But Vic ignored the name-calling, the hurtful remarks, and plowed through life, contented with the silence around him, loving the noise that riddled his brain. He was known to talk to himself in bathrooms, during class sessions, often in the journalism club sitting in front of his laptop or notepad.

He couldn't help it when ideas came and went, engaging him in the inevitable. How could he ignore an idea when it persisted to push through, calling forth attention, wanting to be heard, demanding to share ideas? Deep down, Vic knew that he was careful and analytical with his thoughts, but at the same time he let intuition take over. Intuition didn't mean emotions and feelings running wet and cold. To him, intuition was the subconscious speaking its mind. Like a little boy imprisoned in a cellar, he's constantly knocking at the door, crying to be let out. Vic had the key and unlocked the door, embracing him, setting him free.

And what was the consequence of releasing the little boy? Freedom. Pure. Simple. Naked. Freedom. And that's why Vic's favorite movies consisted of Braveheart, The Patriot, and Silence of the Lambs. The last one was for Anthony Hopkins' acting. Vic was neither deranged nor vampiric; he simply loved the chills one would have after staring into Hannibal Lecter's eyes, like he was watching Vic, contemplating what Vic would taste like. Sweet, marinated with cups of orange sorbets, Vic imagined himself swimming in a bowl of punch, Hannibal's eyes lighting up and nodding his head in satisfaction.

"Orangey," Hannibal would say, his ominous smile electrifying.

Vic arrived at the small bridge over the pond. This was where he listened, letting the little boy send him notes of ideas. The path from where Vic entered the park was littered with lovers' benches and trash cans, while the other side of the bridge held the children's playground. Vic finished his sorbet and set it on the rail, thinking. A couple of days ago a hole dented the school's football field. He was bombarded with one theory after the next, the previous one as baseless as the next.

Vic suspected Luthor but the student body president was as surprised and curious as everyone else. He thought of stray boulders, wrecking balls, broken missiles, a meteor that crumbled from the impact, a spaceship from outer space. Behind each theory, Vic would naturally blame the government's involvement. One way or the other, they could have accidentally triggered a missile, hitting the football field, extracting it right away to avoid the public from pointing fingers in their sleazy business. Vic sighed, bumped his forehead against the cold metal. He was stuck. This was the most bizarre event he had ever come across with, and it has left him in a shroud darker than before.

Suddenly, he heard movement in one of the swings, its rusty hinges squeaking in protest. Vic imagined a dark-haired girl swinging, her hair concealing her face, but he could tell that she was fixated on him, waiting for him to come closer so she could look into his eyes and turn him into a statue.

If that were to happen, Vic didn't care. He'd rather cross the other side than stay on this plane, where classmates taunted him, a father that never came home from work, a mother that left him for a better family. Vic was slightly thankful that his father was neither son-beater nor drunk. His father was a detective, driven by justice and not by family. His mother had the right mind to leave, but Vic wondered why she forgot about him. Maybe he resembled so much of his father that she didn't want any sliver of reminder from her past. She wanted to move on, to forget those lonely nights alone, to start fresh with a new husband and babies. Seemed like she wanted to purge herself of the horrible past, which included Vic.

The only thing that he inherited from his mother was her hair color: orange. Was it coincidence that his love for the color was neatly attributed to his mother? Vic wasn't sure. The only thing he was certain of right now was that the sound from the swings soothed him, enticed him.

He walked slowly, almost on tiptoe, hiding in the shadows.

And that's when he first saw her. Dark hair whipped the air, glistening in the eye of the moonlight. Her tanned legs were perfectly toned and long, like she were a model for a fitness magazine. Her face was parallel to the starlit sky, her eyes drinking in the massive universe that loomed above her, the city, the world. Vic wondered what she was thinking.

Looking at her profile, Vic knew who she was. Hazelnut eyes, thin nose, full lips—Helena Bertinelli was the epitome of Italian beauty. Even her olive skin seemed to shine through the darkness.

He stepped forward and broke a twig.

Helena instantly stopped, looked at him. "Who's there?" She tightened her grip around the chain. On defensive mode, her attire also revealed that she was ready for anything: sports bra, ridged abs, and skintight gym shorts, Helena could beat the crap out of five guys in a minute.

"It's just me. Vic," he said, holding his hands up as a sign of surrender. He walked towards her slowly, trying not to scare the wary lioness.

She squinted her eyes at him. "Who?"

"Vic Sage. I go to DC Academy."

Helena titled her head, filtering her memory bank for a sprinkle of who he was. "Sage. Journalism club? You wrote about the UFO sighting from Mississippi."

"You remember that?" Vic asked, gawking at her in surprise.

"Who can forget such a weird article? Crop circle phenomenon. It made my day," Helena said, smiling lightly. She had to admit that reading that absurd article made her laugh in a good way. She remembered that day clearly. Dinah Lance had just taken over the Baywatch (guys) and Bitch (girls) list, walking all over Helena just because she was blonde and new. Helena couldn't breathe, especially after seeing Ollie ogling the petite bombshell, and she was walking down the hallway, fuming with anger, when a page from the school paper smacked her in the face. She almost threw it away when she read the title, 'Girl Scouts Not Responsible for Crop Circles'.

She glanced at his face and she had to admit that despite his bizarre articles, Vic Sage was quite attractive. In an odd, adorable way. Like a German-Shepherd-Terrier mix. He clearly worked out—though there was hardly proof because he was either talking to himself or sitting in front of the computer all day—but he had a delectable shyness, awkwardness about him. His eyes were a bold green, his nose slightly hooked, and his eyebrows were full and masculine. At first glance, Vic wasn't one to catch the female eye. But a longer look would make a woman think twice. Helena couldn't put a finger to it, but she felt strangely drawn to him.

Was it because she just broke off an official-unofficial relationship from a man she was physically attracted to but with whom she saw no future? Was she after another man for rebound?

"Thanks," Vic's cheeks blushed.

Helena's face pinked after seeing his expression. She could feel her chest beating like a loud African drum. She wanted to stop it, stop from feeling this way toward a schoolmate who she barely knew. And he was weird. Extremely weird.

"So what are you doing swinging this late?" Vic said when he noticed that Helena was suddenly quiet.

Helena shrugged. "Didn't you know? This is when the kids aren't hogging the monkey bars. I use them for chin ups. The swings are just for fun. My father used to push me all the time when I was younger." She didn't know where that came from, but Helena wished she didn't reveal so much about herself.

"Yeah, this park is my kind of sanctuary. A place to get away from it all." Vic saw the hesitance in Helena's face so he took it as a sign to leave. "Well, don't strain yourself too much. Playgrounds were used as a training ground for government agents."

Vic began walking away when Helena called him. She didn't know what came over her but his last comment nearly made her howl with laughter. She didn't know if this was attraction, rebound, or the beginning of a strange friendship, but all Helena knew at the moment was that this guy was hilarious and the last time she laughed out loud was in the playground, with her father pushing the swing, her tiny legs in the air, her giggles seemingly endless. Time stopped then, and she wished she could go back in time to be with her father again. To hear him call her his little angel, to hear herself laugh again.

The next thing she knew it, she was playfully punching Vic in the arm, feigning hurt. This was a first in a long time she laughed heartily. Well, if this wasn't the first time, it was the second time. The crop circle article drew a laugh out of her, letting the little girl out of her shell, beckoning her to find hope and happiness all over again, to laugh like life depended on it—and to some extent, life did depend on it.

They walked and talked the whole time, out of the park, down a couple of blocks until they reached Helena's house. Vic felt like their time was short-lived, but there was still tomorrow. He accompanied her to the front door, and stuttered when he wasn't sure what to do next. Was he supposed to hug her, kiss her on the cheek? What's the protocol for bidding a girl… acquaintance goodbye?

"You have never been on date, haven't you?" Helena asked, her arms on her hips.

Vic shook his head. He was deeply embarrassed and he couldn't look her in the eye.

"You're such a baby doll," Helena said, leaning forward and pecking his cheek. "Thanks for the walk home. I'll see you tomorrow."

Vic was utterly speechless. He was also elated, glued to the floor with his circulation pumping on overdrive. His cheeks were as bright as a ripened tomato, and he couldn't speak when Helena waved him goodbye. He felt deaf and mute at the same time, but his vision of Helena was absolutely clear.

When he finally did move, in baby steps, he touched his cheek. It felt like the warmth from her lips still lingered, tingling his skin, searing into his memory like a tattoo. This was the best night ever. He had never thought a girl would treat him this way. All throughout his early school life, girls shunned and teased him. He was like a leech, a thorn in their Twilight-driven, bubble-wrap world. Because of their shallow way of life, Vic had never wanted to do anything with girls. Some thought he was gay, and men started to pick on him. But he was straight, proud and true. He just didn't do well with crowds, especially among vapid high school peers. And he had thought that Helena was like them, just another fish in the sea, another popular girl who wants to be a sheep like everyone else.

But Vic was completely wrong. Helena Bertinelli was more than good looks and a hot body. She was sassy, street-smart, and unsuspectingly caring. As Vic looked back and watched her lighted window, he wondered what his future laid in store for him. He used to believe that there was no point in hoping, because once one started hoping, disappointment would be bigger and more painful. The fall would leave him completely broken, irreparable. There were too many moments in his life that nearly pushed him over the edge, and Vic was afraid of going through it all again.

Was he being irrational? Was this a trick of the heart? This was completely new and Vic felt like it was messing with his head. He let out a long sigh and retraced his steps, going home. When he arrived, the house was pitch black. The yard was unkempt, weeds were sprouting everywhere, the oak tree was as lifeless as the house. He instantly knew that he would be alone again. Either his father was busy or was avoiding his son, Vic betted on the latter.

Walking through the front door, he checked the refrigerator. He was hungry, probably from tonight's surprising turn of events. Thankfully, there was food. His father left him some groceries—they were still in the brown bag—and some Chinese takeout. Vic quickly heated up the fried rice and pork, went up to the bathroom for a quick shower.

He and his father rarely saw each other. As penance for the lack of responsibility to his son, Vic's father would drop off groceries when the food supply was dwindling. He would do the same for the rest of the house—hire a maid. Vic had grown used to the arrangement, seeing that his father was preoccupied with work or an affair—Vic was also banking on the latter—and it became a normal routine in his life. In fact, he loved it. There was no one to nag him, no one to tell him what to do, no one to interrupt his thoughts.

But unlike most nights, as Vic hopped into the shower, he felt restless. He tried to shake the feeling of unease and dissatisfaction from consuming him, but it kept coming back. Afraid of where his feelings may lead him, Vic quickly washed himself and changed into his orange boxers and clean shirt. He checked his email and when he found one unread message, he almost erased it until the subject line caught his attention.

'_Alien crashed in DC Academy. Pictures are attached.' _

_This must be spam,_ Vic thought to himself. The sender's email address was just as shady, hawkgirl1940. But the subject line was so enticing that Vic thought to just risk it. Besides, he recently installed an anti-virus software. He clicked on the message and saw one picture. He enlarged it and he only stared, unwilling to breathe. There was a picture of an alien spaceship in the field, which explains the crater that is becoming a school landmark at the academy. At first he believed that it was a real UFO, but his rational mind nagged him to search for a more concrete explanation, to doubt the sender who wanted to remain anonymous. He thought that this could be a prank, one of the football jocks playing a joke on him.

Vic exited his email and went to the kitchen. As he sat down for dinner, his mind wandered back to the email. It must be someone playing a trick on him. But as he thought more and more about it, as his photographic memory replayed the image, it didn't look like it was digitally altered. Leaving his dinner unfinished, Vic nearly ran up the stairs and into his room, opening his email and scanning the picture. He was sure of it—it was legit. There were no marks or indication that it was _photoshopped_.

He clicked reply and typed, "Who are you?" He knew that it was a long shot but it was worth the try. He blew out a sigh and leaned back, wondering if he would be the laughing stock at school tomorrow, finding out that he bought into their prank again. It was no secret that he loved UFOs and alien movies, but his main concern right now was why someone would send him this picture. And what was the purpose of keeping the sender anonymous? What was the person hiding?

"Oh shit," Vic said out loud. He rubbed his face, knowing that he would end up losing sleep tonight. And maybe the following nights.

He turned on his laptop and started hacking into the sender's email. This would take days, and Vic was normally opposed to this whorish solution but there was no other way around it. If this picture was indeed real, he wasn't going to let this matter go. If a real live alien crashed into Earth, into his school's football field, he finally struck gold. After years and years of research and ridicule, this would prove everything. That he had been right the entire time.

Finding out the sender's identity was important so that he could track down that person. It was integral that he knew his sources. As his fingers played along the keyboard as if he were Mozart on a piano, as the night grew darker and cold, Vic felt the fire being ignited, like he were hot on someone's tail. As if he was stumbling on a breakthrough. His skin tingled at the anticipation, and Vic knew his sleepless nights would be paid off, one way or the other. Vic has always been an advocate of delayed gratification, and although that didn't involve intimate relationships; when it came down to work Vic put his heart and soul into it. And more often not, hard work almost always prevailed, reaping the benefits.

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To be continued…

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P.S. Thanks **yob3** for your input. Guess you'll have to see if Clark is really gonna dress J'onn up as a mascot. Read on and you'll find out. Thanks for your review again!


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